


The Prince Groom

by ratherbehere



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Declarations Of Love, Explicit Sexual Content, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Minor other pairings, Non-Graphic Torture, Pastiche, Swordfighting, Temporary Major Character Mostly-Death, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherbehere/pseuds/ratherbehere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean's true love Castiel is killed by the Dread Pirate Roberts, he despairs and plots revenge, eventually agreeing to marry Prince Crowley for his additional resources. Crowley is in desperate need for a Prince by his side, and, more importantly, someone the people will miss desperately when his “love” is conveniently murdered by Guilder, so he can start the war he's been waiting for. A reunion with Castiel, who is very much alive, changes both of their plans.</p><p>Based upon the movie and book The Princess Bride by William Goldman. Familiarity with either is not required to enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this fic was done by the lovely [fem-deanwinchester](http://fem-deanwinchester.tumblr.com/). The art master post can be found [here](http://fem-deanwinchester.tumblr.com/post/131304610470/the-prince-groom-by-caswouldratherbehere-art-by). The fic tumblr post can be found [here](http://caswouldratherbehere.tumblr.com/post/131305022110/the-prince-groom-story-by-ratherbehere-art).
> 
> Please note that this tale does NOT contain any actual Dean/Crowley. They do not do a single thing together that is romantic or physical and both are frank that there is no love between them. They are engaged only in technicality. 
> 
> Inceptioning _The Princess Bride_ \- a note on the construct: Many elements from this story are taken from the movie. However, many elements also stem from the book. One thing Goldman did as an author was jump into the story every so often with commentary, keeping up a charade that he first heard S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure from his father while sick. This original book and S. Morgenstern are all completely fabricated, Goldman created them as a device so that he could, among other reasons, comment on his own story. I loved these moments, so I kept up with the running narration. I will admit, I did not pull it off as charmingly or brilliantly as he did, but I had to try.
> 
> Lastly, while working on this story, one of my betas explained to me that the term Vice King is not a thing. Well, Floren isn't a real place, lightning sand doesn't exist, there are no machines that literally suck years of your life away with water powered suction cups, and I'd sell a kidney to bring someone back from mostly dead with a chocolate coated pill. 
> 
> The point is, if the term “Vice King” bothers you from the stand point of historical accuracy, this probably isn't the story for you.
> 
> But if fairy tale shenanigans, adventure, magic, friendship, bravery, and above all else, True Love, are of any interest to you, then please, read on. I hope you enjoy it.

_ _

####  **Foreword**

When William Goldman was young, he fell ill and, while there was little else the boy could do, his father read him a story. That story was S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure, otherwise known as, _The Princess Bride_. It was filled with action, adventure, tragedy, humor, and above all else, friendship, family, and love.

Goldman was shocked to discover, years later when he passed the book on to his son, that the book was actually quite dull. It went on and on at length about histories of countries and lists of names and in general dragged on until no one could finish it. Goldman's father had skipped all of the boring parts.

Yet Goldman desperately wanted his son to be able to enjoy the same book he had been read as a kid. So he contacted his publisher and proposed an abridged re-release.

What followed was the book we all know and love, and shortly later, a movie.

The first I knew of _The Princess Bride_ was the movie. I love it. As a kid, the adventure and tale of True Love was fun and awe inspiring and romantic. It was a true fairy tale.

So imagine my shock when, years later, I picked up Goldman's book and discovered that the entire thing was deeply heteronormative and a little sexist. Had the movie been that way as well? Likely, I was simply too young and raised in a too problematic society to see it.

This needed to be fixed, so that others may enjoy Goldman's retelling of S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure, as I once had. This is that story.

I now present the abridged abridged re-re-released edition of _The Princess Bride_ , now known as _The Prince Groom,_ a Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure.

####  **Prologue**

In the peaceful town of Lawrenceville, there lived an ordinary boy on an ordinary farm. He had an ordinary family and lived an ordinary life. It was all rather... ordinary. Even his name was ordinary—Dean, he was called.

Of course, his life hadn't always been so ordinary. He'd once had a baby brother. Not that there was anything unusual about this. No, what was unusual was that one day his baby brother had suddenly no longer been in his crib. It was quite mysterious and no one could explain it, but after weeks of investigating and searching, his brother had been declared dead.

As Dean was only six when this all happened, he moved on a lot easier than his parents did, until having a brother was but a distant memory.

No, Dean spent his days as unconcerned as a boy should be. He was busy playing in the fields, helping with the farm, and barking orders to their stable boy.

This was, perhaps, his favorite part of any day.

The stable boy was strange. He was an orphan, though Dean had never asked what had happened. He couldn't even remember quite when Castiel had arrived. It seemed as if he'd just always been a part of his life.

Castiel had dark hair and was quiet and serious. He did his work and earned his keep with a sort of stoicism that Dean lacked completely. He didn't quite get Dean's jokes and was often spotted shaking his head at Dean's antics. Dean didn't quite understand him, and so, as a child on the verge of taking over the homestead, Dean took it upon himself to tell Castiel what to do.

“Fetch that pail, stable boy,” Dean would order.

“Get me a drink of water,” Dean would demand.

Dean was an ordinary child and farm boy himself, and Castiel was actually a few years older than him, but Castiel always obeyed him. He would tip his head just slightly and reply, “As you wish.”

Life would progress in this ordinary way with Dean deeply in denial about his feelings for the stable boy until the day the Duke of Floren and his handsome wife visited their farm. They'd heard tales about the Winchester family and how their steeds were unparalleled and wanted to see it for themselves.

“Yes Sir,” said John Winchester, owner of the farm and Dean's father, “You are correct, our steeds are unsurpassed in the land. I would be honored to show them to you.”

They stood in front of their little farm house, Dean just behind his father, trying to look tall and proud and older than 16, but he failed on nearly all accounts. Still, it was enough to catch the wife's eye. Duchess Megan was her name, and while Dean's dad greeted them cordially and properly, her eyes wandered appraisingly over Dean.

What she saw in him, what everyone saw in Dean except for Dean himself, was not necessarily beauty, but the potential for beauty. This was why her look of interest was not one of lust, but curiosity. He was young and lanky, too pretty to be truly handsome, but. He could be. One day.

“And what is the secret to your prized steeds?” the Duke asked.

“Castiel,” Dean said without thinking. He blushed and added, “Sir.”

Now that appraising eye was coming from the Duke himself. It was a long, uncomfortable pause while his eyes roamed over Dean.

“And this Castiel is...?” the Duke asked.

“The stable boy,” John supplied, giving Dean a warning look.

“I would like to meet this Castiel,” the Duke declared.

John agreed and led the way to the stables where Castiel was sure to be tending the horses at this time of day.

“Castiel!” Dean called as they approached. “Come out here.”

“As you wish,” came Castiel's reply, muffled by hay and horses.

He stepped out of the stables looking a mess. His hair was tousled and knotted with bits of hay, his hands were dirty, his clothes covered in stains from working with animals on a constant basis. The young man on the verge of adulthood looked how he always looked, but as the Duchess's eye combed over his frame, a funny feeling settled in Dean's stomach.

“Yes, sir?” Castiel asked, his confusion evident.

“This is Duke Metatron. He would like to ask you about how you tend to the horses.”

“Oh,” Castiel said in surprise. “Well it's simple, I love them as all creatures should be loved.”

The Duke's eyebrows raised and John began laughing nervously.

“Yes, Castiel is a lover, sir,” John explained, palming the back of his neck. “Explain what you actually do with the animals, Castiel. How you feed them, exercise them, and care for them.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel replied, a faint blush on his cheeks. He knew he'd embarrassed his caregiver and provider and was horrified to think he let him down.

As Castiel began to explain his routine in detail, Dean watched the Duchess, who was watching Castiel. Her eyes roamed over him hungrily. It was markedly different than how they had appraised him. This gaze was full of want, of desire.

Castiel led them to the pens where the horses were currently roaming and Dean barely heard a word. The Duchess stared at Castiel, and every moment that her gaze would not leave his backside, the knot in Dean's stomach twisted further.

Dean went to bed that night feeling unsettled and unsure. He tossed and turned, sleep eluding him, as he thought about the Duchess and her stare. Her eyes roaming Castiel's dark, full hair, the sloping curve of his backside, the strength of his jaw. She’d even lingered on Castiel's slim, elegant fingers, a hand far too delicate for the work Castiel did. Castiel's hands were one of Dean's favorite things about him, second only to his eyes.

As Dean thought more about the things he liked about Castiel, the uneasy feeling in his stomach changed.

He sat up sharply with a gasp.

He was in love with Castiel.

Could it be? Was it true? He was just an ordinary stable boy and Dean was just an ordinary farmer's son. Except, nothing about Castiel was ordinary. He was extraordinary. Beautiful and smart and capable.

And Dean, Dean definitely loved him.

Was he... was he allowed to love Castiel? Though he had often thought of Castiel as a brother, they weren't, and Dean realized now his feelings were not quite brotherly and never had been. In fact, he'd felt this way for a long time. Ordering Castiel around had been born as much from Castiel's strangeness as his own confused feelings.

 _Crap_ , Dean realized. Most of their interactions had been nothing but orders. Castiel surely hated him.

But he had to know.

And it couldn't wait. Not now that he knew.

Dean threw off the covers and jumped from bed. He scrambled through the door and raced across the soft grass of the front yard to Castiel's hut, the small place he stayed in to be closer to the animals, and knocked at the door. And again when Castiel did not immediately answer. The stars twinkled down at him while he waited, losing faith.

When Castiel finally cracked open the door, he blinked at Dean in tired confusion.

“Dean?”

“Cas,” Dean sighed. “I...” He what? He hadn't thought this through. Castiel would have thought this through. “I love you,” he said, laying it out there bluntly. “I just thought you should know. You probably hate me, but I love you.” Castiel stared at him with wide eyes. He didn't speak. “Tell me you love me, too?” Dean tried, one last time. But Castiel didn't reply.

Dean turned to leave, his chest caving in.

“As you wish,” came the soft reply behind him.

“What?” Dean said, spinning on the spot.

“As you wish, Dean Winchester,” Castiel said, stepping forward. “I love you, too.”

And suddenly Dean realized that, all this time, 'as you wish' had _always_ meant, 'I love you.'

He crashed into Castiel, pressing their lips together and holding him close. Dean loved Castiel, and Castiel loved him. It was almost too good to be true.

Castiel pressed him into the grass beneath the twinkling sky and showed him how real it was. Dean followed his lead when Castiel gently removed his clothes, followed his lead with presses of lips and caresses of flesh, followed him further as Castiel sank low and brought him to pleasure. When he demanded more, Castiel whispered “as you wish” and pressed it into his flesh. When he begged for release, Castiel whispered “as you wish” and brought him to completion. When Dean told Castiel it was his turn, come, my angel, Castiel came, and after the shaking subsided, whispered back, “As you wish, my love.”

It was as perfect a night as one could ever hope to have, the most perfect blending of heart and spirit and body, the perfect love for two parts of one soul finally becoming whole.

It was the kind of love that didn't happen every day. It was true love that Dean held in his arms, and he knew it down to his bones.

Which is why it came as such a shock when he awoke the next morning and Castiel was gone. He'd left Dean nothing but a note.

_I am an orphan and a poor boy with nothing to offer you. If we are to marry, if I am to be worthy of you, I must earn my place. I sail for America to make my fortunes._

_I'm sorry I could not say goodbye in person. I knew you would fight me and protest, and I can never say no to you._

_I will return to you, Dean. Nothing can stop true love._

Dean crumbled the paper and sunk to the floor.

“You stupid bastard,” Dean grumbled. He understood everything in the note. Why Castiel thought he needed to go off, why he left nothing but a note.

But it didn't make it any easier to accept.

####  **Chapter 1: The Engagement**

The knock at Dean's door sounded as if it had come from a million miles away.

“Dean?” came Mom's voice through his door. “Dean, sweetheart please, come out. Eat dinner with us. Take Impala out for a ride. Please. This isn't healthy.”

Dean didn't reply. The voice was millions of miles away. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

The news article lay in the same spot on his bureau as it had the day Dean first read it two weeks earlier. He'd barely moved since then, staring at the ceiling for hours on end, unable to move past the words it contained.

          BREAKING NEWS

 _The passenger ship_ Heaven's Gate _, which was bound for America, has fallen victim to the Dread Pirate Roberts. All aboard were lost. The Dread Pirate Roberts spares none. If you have any information as to the identity of this villain, please contact your local authority immediately. A reward of six pigs has been offered by the duke._

Dean had collapsed in despair the moment he’d read the article. Dad, keeping a level head, had dashed to town and requested the ship manifesto. Though Dean had already assumed the worst, it still came as a shock to the heart when Dad told him with watery eyes that Castiel had indeed been a passenger on _Heaven's Gate_. Dean had gone calmly to his room and hadn't left since.

But Mom was right. He was wasting away, and his anger had nowhere to go. His grief had slid towards anger slowly until he was almost blind with it. How dare Castiel leave him without warning, how dare the ship be taken captive, how dare he die.

How dare they fucking name a fucking ship _Heaven's Gate_. Who would do that?

So when Dean finally emerged from his room his parents delight quickly changed back to concern when he went straight through the house and to the stables. He had Impala ready to go and a pack thrown together, and within minutes he was gone.

He rode hard and fast until he knew Impala couldn't take any more. He hunted while she rested, and rode more. Dean's days became a blur of riding and hunting, living off the land and his wits until he could think properly again.

Eventually, when Dean's anger had become a low and constant burn, he made for town, desperate to find the Dread Pirate Roberts and exact revenge for the love that was taken from him. But his thirst would go unquenched. No one knew anything about the pirate, and he lacked money to hire a ship and a crew to seek him for himself. Even the other low-lifes of the town couldn't see a reason to go after such a notorious pirate, no matter how much plunder Dean promised them from his share.

His failure to get his revenge made him more bitter and more angry, until he burned through it all and was left empty inside.

When Dean Winchester finally returned home, he was no longer the boy he used to be. Gone were the pudges of skin and delicate features that made him too pretty to be handsome. He was made of lean muscle and hard lines, his face fierce and his eyes older but sharper. He was the most stunning man in all of Floren.

~

Prince Crowley hated his mother. His mother, The Queen, was only good for one thing—dying. As soon as she kicked it, he would become King. The ruler of all the little, pathetic people that made up his land. And with her out of the way, he could finally wage war against the people of Guilder.

It was absurd that his darling mother would not let him attack Guilder without provocation. They had gold and land and resources, and owning Guilder came with power that Crowley desperately craved. The people of Guilder were not particularly strong or smart, it would be easy to take them.

And so it seemed that in order to wage his war and claim what should be his, Crowley would either have to kill his mother, or, even better, trick both her and the kingdom into thinking war was deserved.

Which was where the idea of marriage came in.

The kingdom expected him to marry. His mother expected him to marry. Everyone and the kingdom next door expected him to marry. No king could ever be single, it just wasn’t proper.

Of course, Crowley didn't particularly want a partner of any gender. He was a loner. When he wasn't busy with the affairs of state, he was hunting in the woods. Women did not hunt, and men would be intimidated by his prowess. They would become jealous and Crowley didn't have time for any of it.

So he had avoided all romantic affairs of any kind, until, in a moment of cunning so devious he had actually laughed out loud and scared a maid, he devised a way to please people, stay single, and get his war with Guilder.

“Sir,” Metatron stated as he entered Crowley's chambers. “Your mother has fallen ill. Fainted at morning meal and hasn't stirred since. Her pulse is weak. You must make haste on finding your betrothed.”

Crowley eyed him curiously. Metatron knew about his brilliant plan, there was no reason to pretend otherwise. Unless, of course, someone was listening. Metatron tilted his head just a fraction to the side and Crowley moved his gaze to the hallway where a young boy was mopping the floors.

It was a good idea to let the boy hear, let him spread rumors and keep up their false pretenses. Metatron was a smart man, perhaps the only person Crowley could ever come close to loving.

Metatron continued, “It should be someone so beautiful that the people will fall madly in love. Someone you can be proud to call yours.”

Crowley waved his hand. “Yes, yes, I know this, too. What good are you if all you're going to do is tell me things I already know?” he said. He threw in an eye roll to make it look good. He was a fantastic actor, after all. “I need a name, not a lesson.”

Metatron smiled. “That name is Dean Winchester.”

Crowley answered Metatron's smile with a genuine frown. “Winchester? Those farmers with the excellent horses? You want me to marry a farm boy?”

“Trust me, though he was young when I met him, by now, Dean is unmatched in all the land.”

“The people will love him?”

Metatron nodded. “Everyone will be envious of your prized husband.” He dropped his voice to barely a whisper and added, “His death will hit them most hard.”

Crowley grinned.

“Prepare my horse, I have a marriage to propose.”

~

“C'mon Baby, if I give you any more sugar, your blood will turn into candy.”

Impala lifted her head, nudging into Dean's hand forcefully. She was not happy with Dean's answer. Dean gave her a sympathetic glance and patted her gently. The grass of the meadow swayed in the breeze, and Impala turned his attention to the field.

Dean spent most of his free time with the horses now. They didn't ask questions, didn't care about how much he ate, or if he was out socializing with new people. His parents worried. Horses did not. Out in the fields, he had found a modicum of peace.

The road was not far from where he and Impala had stopped, but Dean was still surprised when he heard hooves on the pavement. Few people traveled out this way but his family.

Eventually, a small contingent of people pulled into view, and at its center was a man in luxurious silk and velvet clothing. He was covered in purple accents, the mark of royalty. Clearly, he was the one the group was there to serve and protect.

The slick man pulled the caravan up short when he saw Dean in the field. He whispered a word to the man to his left and smoothly dismounted his horse.

“Hello, darling,” he said with a distinct accent as he approached. “Are you Dean Winchester?”

Dean eyed him warily. “Who's asking?”

The man narrowed his eyes at him for a moment before throwing back his head and laughing heartily. “Oh yes,” he said. “I like you. I am Prince Crowley Ferguson.”

Crowley said it in such a way that Dean gathered he was supposed to be impressed.

“Who?”

This time, the man did not laugh. “PRINCE Crowley Ferguson. Of Floren.” He bristled. “The country you live in,” he added. Dean had not been paying attention however and was petting Impala by the time Crowley had finished his grandstanding. “It's like talking to a squirrel,” Crowley muttered.

Crowly puffed up his chest before continuing. “I'm here to demand your hand in marriage.”

Dean's eyes snapped to him, fierce and evaluating.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because your beauty is unmatched in all the land and I need a partner or I cannot become king,” Crowley explained. “You'd be a king as well,” Crowley pointed out. “The Vice King, naturally.” When Dean did not look suitably eager and pleased, Crowley grumbled. “It’s not like you have much choice in the matter,” he said, the threat vague but clear enough, though Dean still did not respond. Crowley sighed. “Most people would jump at this.”

But Dean did not jump at it. He continued to stare and evaluate. Dean knew that saying no to a prince was a poor idea, especially this one. He had heard of Crowley, of course he had, and the man had a reputation for being cunning and ruthless. Dean had no interest in marrying him, but he did have an interest in the power the position would bring him. Perhaps he would finally have the means to hunt down the Dread Pirate Roberts and exact revenge for his beloved.

“I would never love you,” Dean finally replied.

“Good god, don't, never love anyone.”

Dean tilted his head, eyes sharp. “I think this could work.”

Crowley’s answering grin cast his face in ominous shadow. “Excellent.”


	2. The Kidnapping

_Goldman spent a great deal of the beginning of this chapter discussing Humperdink's interest in hunting and the animals he kept on hand to kill. It was an attempt to paint Humperdink in a poor, cowardly light, but the activity of choice did not fit well with the reformed image of Humperdink as Crowley, whom, for all his flaws, would not be interested in hunting animals for sport._

_He may, however, be interested in dog fighting, nicknaming his massive beasts hellhounds and rooting for his hounds to rip his lords' dogs into pieces. I could not, however, bring myself to write such a scene, so if you need motivation to see Crowley as just a little bit more despicable, you can imagine it yourself._

 

The sun was high as Dean rode through the palace lands.

It turned out, living in a palace was kind of annoying. Dean didn't like feeling enclosed, and he was constantly the focus of someone's gaze. He increasingly regretted saying yes to Crowley's proposal, even if he didn't have much of a choice. Crowley had promised to help him find the Dread Pirate Roberts, but only after they were wed, and so Dean was waiting out the days until his plan could come to fruition.

Still, it wasn't all awful. Dean discovered rather quickly that his sense of justice resonated with the people. When he'd been presented to all of Floren, they had asked him what he thought of the tariffs and he replied that they were selfish on the part of the crown and should be stopped to help the farmers sustain themselves. Crowley surprised him with by smirking at him for that line.

He became a champion of the people. To Dean's disbelief, they loved him. He was utterly unworthy of it, but a few well-placed words and simply having eyelashes like a milk maiden, and they were falling at his feet. It was bizarre. He wasn't even that nice.

Castiel would have laughed at it all, and the thought caused another pang in his chest every time he thought it. Time had not helped—the pain of his passing hurt just as much as it ever had. He dreamed of Castiel almost every night. Usually a confusing blur of sapphire eyes and a background of moving, elusive blue.

A part of him wanted to believe Castiel was still alive, out there, waiting for him. Or making his way back to Dean. But that was absurd, something that would only happen in a fairy tale.

And his life was far from a fairy tale.

Dean was heading back to the castle from an adventurous afternoon of hunting (thriving hunting grounds was one perk of the castle and its lands) when he encountered a very tall man standing in his path. He had floppy brown hair and stood with a grace that spoke to a great deal of hidden strength.

“Prince Dean,” he said in greeting.

“Do I know you?” Dean asked, a bite to his voice.

“No,” he replied, “You only need know me as your kidnapper.”

“What-”

But Dean never got to finish his question. He was struck hard from behind and saw black.

He awoke again in darkness, and it didn't take very long to discover he had a blindfold over his eyes and rope binding his wrists and feet. The itchy, rough material was unmistakable, though he was usually using it for farming tasks, not being bound with it. He’d had plans that might have gone that way, had the love of his life not been a dumbass who got himself killed.

The point was, this was nowhere near as fun as he'd hoped being bound with rope would be.

“I still don't understand why we had to tie him up or cover his head,” a voice said. “Seems unnecessary. He's not going anywhere.”

That's when Dean realized he was on a boat. There was a gentle sway originating from beneath his feet and a tinge of salt to the moist air. If he listened for it, he could hear water lapping at the boat.

“You don't get a say in this,” came a bossy female voice. “I'm the one with the plan, I'm the one paying you. Sit down and shut up.”

The first person clearly did not like this answer, and spoke up to say so. They began squabbling.

Fortunately, Dean was good at keeping his wits about him in dangerous situations. He had to be, to survive the forest and his brief venture into the city. Dean's fingers were nimble and he used them to feel around behind him until he found a nail in the wood of what he assumed was the hull behind him. After a lifetime of helping repair the fences around the farm, he knew how to pry loose a nail, so he freed it easily. While his capturers fought, he turned the pointy end toward the rope and began sawing and wiggling at it. Between the two movements, perhaps he could work himself free.

“I think he's awake,” came a new, male voice, not quite as deep as the voice of the first one. This surprised Dean, he thought there were only two with him, but it mattered not.

“Inconceivable,” replied the bossy female. “He should be out for much longer. Hopefully he won't wake up before we have to kill him.”

The joke was on the bossy lady. He knew nothing good was happening here, and her words confirmed it. Before anyone could figure out just how awake he was, he snapped the remaining threads of rope, pulled the blindfold off his eyes, and dove into the water.

For a brief, very wonderful moment, he thought it had worked. No splash sounded behind him and he quickly began swimming away from the boat in frantic, long reaches of his arms and kicks of his feet.

But he only made it a foot or so when something swam sharply in front of him, followed by chillingly evil laughter from behind.

“Eels, _my prince_ ,” came the bossy lady's voice, now sounding more sarcastic and rude than bossy. A lifesaver hit the water next to his head. “Grab the lifesaver and come back on board, or you'll be the next meal.”

“Hell no,” Dean replied.

But the world was truly against him that day. No sooner had his refusal left his lips than a second large form swam in front of him, a mouth of pointy teeth just breaking the surface of the water.

“C'mon, don't be stupid,” said the first voice now. “Those aren't just eels, those are the shrieking eels.”

Sure enough, a high pitched sound that could only be described as a shriek pierced the air.

“And they only get louder right before they strike,” Boss Lady said with a sneer. “Grab the lifesaver.”

Dean was about to refuse again when another bone jarring shriek shot through the air, louder than before, and the back of an eel crested the water, heading straight for Dean.

“Yeah okay,” Dean mumbled, reaching frantically for the lifesaver. “Hurry!”

He was lifted from the water at the same moment a great, gaping mouth of teeth emerged and snapped shut at the exact spot he had just been. Dean shuddered. Yeah, he could find another way of dealing with his captors, the eels were not an option.

Dean was forced back onto the box he'd been sitting on by strong, large hands. Looking up, Dean discovered the owner of these strong, large hands was an equally strong, large man. He had brown floppy hair and soft hazel eyes. He seemed familiar, and not just from being the one to attack him earlier. But given the way he was retying Dean's hands in front of him, wrapping extra rope around to prevent him from escaping again, Dean really hoped he didn't know the guy.

“That was futile,” the boss lady said. “I suppose you think you're brave.”

“Only compared to some,” Dean replied pointedly, wiggling his tied hands. Her eyes narrowed.

Like the man, where everything seemed to be brown, everything about this woman was red. Her hair, her lips, her nails. Even her tunic was red. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to jam her hand down his throat and pull his guts out by way of his stomach.

Her gaze roamed up and down Dean’s body, just this side of suggestive, and he shuddered.

“If only we were alone,” she purred. “I'd teach you to be a good boy.”

“No, thanks,” Dean responded. “I don't sleep with murdering bitches.”

Dean's vision went cross eyed as a red-tipped hand reached out and smacked him hard across the face. She stalked over, picked up the discarded blindfold, and held it for a moment, looking at Dean. Reaching for him, the cloth did not go around his eyes, but rather, was jammed into his mouth and then tied behind his head.

“Now I can look at your pretty bound face without having to listen to you yap,” she said. She sat on a bunch of boxes as if it were a throne and loosely crossed her arms.

Dean had little else to do but glare at her, so he did.

A few minutes later, the other man on the ship, a younger looking Asian, stood from the box he was sitting on and picked up a pair of binoculars. The bossy lady raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Making sure we weren't followed,” the Asian replied.

“That would be inconceivable,” she replied. “No one knows we're here, and besides, we have the fastest ship in Floren.” She waved her hand dismissively, then paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it's nothing. I just happened to look behind us and something is there.”

“What?!” She stood quickly and snatched the binoculars out of his hand. “Probably some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise at night... through eel infested waters.” She growled. “It matters not, we're almost to the Cliffs.”

The cliffs? Surely she did not mean the Cliffs of Insanity. Dean had heard of them, and they were aptly named. A sheer, 90 degree drop into the eel infested waters, with few hand holds and slick rock. It was a common dare that the locals would engage in, offering riches if one could make it down to the water and back up without dying.

No one has ever made it before.

It would be insane for them to try to climb the Cliffs, and yet, the landmass in question loomed closer.

“They're gaining,” the Asian notified his boss.

Sure enough, whoever was behind them was now close enough that the binoculars were no longer necessary. And they were coming closer. Spotting the black-clad man at the helm, Dean didn't know whether the newcomer was a rescuer, or a new problem.

As their own boat swung close enough to the rock face, the giant man reached out and found a rope. It's presence made Dean feel just a little bit better. They must have tied it to the top and dangled it down in preparation for their kidnapping. If they were trying to cover their tracks, it was a good plan. No one would suspect an escape up the Cliffs of Insanity. Especially if they sunk the boat or pushed it off to float down the bay.

“Alright,” the tall man barked. “Everyone on.”

It took a few tries to arrange everyone correctly, Dean tossed over a shoulder, the woman and Asian each clinging to a side, but somehow they managed to get everyone on the tall man's person. And then to Dean's complete astonishment, he began to climb.

It was slow going, but he was making it. Dean watched helplessly as his possible escape option, the boat, was sent adrift down the bay, growing ever smaller to his eyes.

Growing larger was the other man and his boat. He made it to Cliffs before they were even halfway up.

“He's going to catch up,” the Asian noted.

“Shut up, Kevin,” the redhead replied with a snap.

A few more feet.

“He's at the rope,” Kevin updated, ignoring the order to shut up.

“Inconceivable!” she cried. “Faster, Sam!”

“I am going faster.”

She was shrieking now. “YOU were supposed to be this COLOSSUS, this legendary man with inhuman strength, and yet he gains! You incompetent—”

“Hey!” Sam snapped. “I'm carrying three people, he’s got none.”

“Excuses will only get you fired,” the redhead spat.

Sam cursed underneath his breath. It sounded like some harsh words and it only made Dean wonder why they stayed with her.

“Yeah, well, being fired doesn't change the fact that he's still gaining, Abaddon,” Kevin pointed out helpfully.

Sure enough, the man was maneuvering up the Cliffs with relative ease and would surely catch them. Probably just at the top, judging by the rate he was going. Again, Dean wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

Abaddon growled. “You'll cut the rope when we reach the top,” she ordered Kevin.

“That doesn't seem very fair,” Kevin replied with a frown.

Abaddon tilted her head. “We kidnapped a man with the intent to murder him, I don't think ‘fair’ is a concern.”

Kevin sighed. “You never mentioned the murdering bit,” he grumbled to himself. “And I didn't much like the kidnapping part in the first place.” He said it so quietly that Dean was sure he was the only one who heard him.

They reached the top a moment later, Sam's hulking form pulling them over the edge. Dean was placed on a nearby rock like he was nothing more than a sack of flour, and then Sam collapsed, breathing hard, trying to catch his breath.

Kevin stood at the edge, looking at the man about fifteen feet below. He looked to Abaddon, who lifted an eyebrow in expectation. He sighed and took out his sword. “Sorry about this,” he mumbled before making a clean slice through the rope.

“Finally,” Abaddon breathed. “Glad that's over.”

“Huh,” Kevin said, still looking over the edge.

“What?”

“He's got very good arms,” Sam observed, taking a look for himself.

“He didn't fall?” Abaddon asked. She stalked over to the edge and looked over. “INCONCEIVABLE!”

“You keep using that word,” Kevin said. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Abaddon snarled. “Fine. FINE. You will wait here,” she said, jabbing a finger into Kevin's chest. “IF, and this is a big if, IF he makes it to the top, you will kill him.”

Kevin looked at her sharply, his eyes holding no fear. “Then I will duel him left-handed,” he stated. Abaddon blinked at him several times in question, her face getting every more scrunched as she waited for an explanation. Eventually, Kevin elaborated. “It's the only way I can be satisfied. If I use my right, it would be over too quickly.”

Abaddon rolled her eyes. “Just kill him,” she said as if she were discussing the weather. “Sam, throw Dean back over your shoulder, we're moving on. Kevin, after you kill him, catch up.”

“Yes ma'am,” Kevin responded with a sloppy salute.

Sam shared a sympathetic look with him before reaching for Dean. Dean was all muscle and weighed more than he appeared, but given that Sam had just climbed the Cliffs of Insanity with three times as much weight, a single Dean was no problem for him. He tossed Dean over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Flour and potatoes. What would be next? Zucchini?

“Hey,” Dean mumbled around his gag, kicking. “Icnfckinwlkuno.”

“If you don't shut up, we will knock you out again,” Abaddon said, taking off down the path before them, its winding trail leading through the rocky terrain. “And I'm sure your brain can't spare too much damage before you'd be little more than a cucumber.”

Dean sighed.

~

The last Kevin saw of Dean, he had quieted and was no longer fussing. But then again, Kevin thought, maybe Sam had just knocked him out again after all.

Kevin did not want to kill Dean. In fact, he rather hated the line of work he was in. He hated Abaddon. But he was on a mission of revenge and there was no room in his mission for squabbling over morals and heart. Abaddon was powerful and had many connections, and she was his best hope for achieving everything he had worked towards for the last 15 years.

He waited for the Man in Black to reach the top, but he was making little progress and Kevin quickly grew impatient.

“Hello,” Kevin called down to the man, “Slow going?”

“Look,” the man responded, his voice deep and rough. “I don't mean to be rude, but this is not as easy as it looks, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me.”

“Oh, sorry,” Kevin replied, backing away just slightly from the edge.

“Thank you,” the man responded cordially.

Kevin watched him for a few more moments, and as he was slowly making progress and showed no signs of slowing, Kevin decided he had time to warm up. He unsheathed his sword and made a few practice swipes. What was taking so long?

Looking back over the edge, the man had not moved much.

“Any chance you could speed things up?” Kevin asked.

“If you're in such a hurry,” the man replied. “Lower a rope or a branch and help me.”

“I could,” Kevin replied. “I've got some spare rope up here, but I didn't think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.”

“Hmm,” the man hummed in agreement. “That does put a damper on our relationship.”

“I promise not to kill you until you reach the top?” Kevin said, making it sound like a question. Unsurprisingly, the Man in Black did not agree.

“How comforting,” the man replied. “But I'm afraid you'll have to wait to kill me.”

“I give my word as an Asian.”

“That does not help.”

“Why?” Kevin asked, confused.

“I've known too many Asians.”

Kevin sighed. “Then I swear it on the soul of my mother, you will reach the top alive.”

The Man in Black looked up at him, meeting his eye through the slit in his bandanna. They were sharp and evaluating. Kevin felt as if his soul was being scanned, his character measured. Kevin wasn't sure what the Man in Black would see. He had done bad things before, true, but he hoped that at heart, he could still be a good man.

“Lower the rope,” the Man in Black said at last.

Kevin sheathed his sword and went for the coil of rope sitting at the top of the Cliffs. With the two of them working the rope, the Man in Black crested the ridge within moments.

“Thank you,” he said as he panted, fumbling to get his sword out, preparing for the fight he was promised.

“Get your breath first,” Kevin said amicably. “It would not be right for me to kill you while you are winded and weak.”

“Again, thank you,” the man said, collapsing onto a rock. As if the entire situation weren't odd enough, Kevin made it weirder by handing him a flask of water. The man raised his eyes in surprise, taking the flask slowly. “I suppose if you were going to poison me, you would have just dropped me off the ledge.”

“On the soul of my mother-”

The man raised a hand. “I know.”

Kevin eyed his hand for a moment. “You've never had six fingers have you? Perhaps on your other hand?”

“That's a strange way to start a conversation,” the man replied. He took another sip of water.

“My mother was killed by a six fingered man,” Kevin explained. The Man in Black met his eye again, listening intently. It was a courtesy one does not normally afford their possible soon-to-be murderer. “My mother had a gift with steel,” he continued, unsheathing his sword. “She was the best in the land. Great enough to attract the attention of the rich and powerful. One day a man with six fingers commissioned a sword. It was to be the best sword in all the land—perfect balance, grip, unblemished steel.”

Kevin handed the sword to the man. He tested the weight, wrapped his fingers around the grip and gave it a swipe before passing it back to Kevin. “I've never seen its equal,” he admitted.

“She slaved for a year on his sword, and when he came to collect, he paid her a fraction of its worth,” Kevin continued. “When she demanded her fair pay before she would hand the sword over, he became angry, called her a silly woman, and stabbed her through the heart.” Kevin paused, taking a deep breath. “I needed to avenge my mother's death and requested a duel. I lost of course, I was only 11, and he left me this to remember him by.” Kevin motioned to the scars cutting across his cheeks.

The Man in Black stared at him for a moment longer. It was a little too intense for Kevin's liking.

“That should never have happened to you,” he said. “Were I not about to be killed, I would help you find this man.”

Kevin nodded. “I understand, but—”

“Yes,” the Man in Black agreed, rising to his feet. “You've been more than fair. Thank you for the rest.”

His combatant placed his sword in his left hand and Kevin followed suit. He didn't grin, because he would not enjoy killing this man, but he was rather smug about his odds.

They started with simple swings, easily batted away. But even the most seemingly useless moves can reveal a great deal. The man had good form, as good as Kevin's. He had adopted Bonetti's defense, suitable for the rocky terrain, so he knew what he was doing. But Kevin had experience, had been practicing non-stop since he was a boy, and when one puts that much heart into what they do, there is no way to fail. He was the best in the land, capable of being challenged by only a few.

“You're incredible,” the Man in Black said calmly.

“Thank you,” he responded.

As their swipes increased pace, it became clear that the man knew many techniques, and he switched them when he felt like it, and adapted to Kevin's technique when he didn't. Kevin was keeping pace, but he was beginning to fear he wouldn't be able to win with his left hand.

After Kevin narrowly avoided a thrust of the man's blade, he decided it was time to switch hands and end this. He smiled wide.

“Why are you smiling?” the man asked, perplexed.

“Because I know something you don't,” Kevin responded, a little cheek to his tone.

“Oh?” the man replied.

“I'm not left-handed.”

Kevin tossed his sword and the air and caught it deftly with his right hand, his dominant hand. He swung sharply at the Man in Black, who jumped back in surprise.

The fight turned. Kevin was winning now. He was making ground and the Man in Black was struggling to keep up. His answering strokes were slower, more clumsy, while Kevin had gained the upper hand and took to the offense effortlessly. It would only be a matter of time now. He was confident in that.

At least until the man smiled at him.

“There is something I must also tell you,” the man said.

“What's that?” Kevin answered.

“I'm not left-handed either.”

The man gave his sword a flick into his other hand and parried Kevin's stroke with ease. With a flourish, Kevin was disarmed, his blade flung to a lower level of ground. There was a gap in the rocks between him and his blade, with a beam stretching between them. Kevin grabbed that beam, and with a show of acrobatic skill, did an extra twist around the pole before releasing, landing with a roll, and retrieving his sword.

It was, perhaps, a shameless attempt to make himself look impressive and he felt he had succeeded impressively.

That was, until the Man in Black followed his example. Only instead of one twist around the beam, he did several, released himself high into air, spun several time, and landed squarely on his feet.

“Who are you?” Kevin asked, amazed.

“No one of consequence,” came his rough voiced reply.

“I must know,” Kevin tried again.

“Get used to disappointment.”

Kevin shrugged and thrust again for the Man in Black.

They were evenly matched now. Kevin's passion against the Man in Black's knowledge. Of course, Kevin had knowledge as well, and a glimpse of the man's eyes revealed more passion than the man had been letting on. Kevin was not at all certain how this would go, not now that the man was bouncing around the terrain like a man used to balancing in more precarious situations. His skill was incredible and went well beyond just swordplay.

Kevin struggled to keep up and it was no surprise when the Man in Black finally disarmed him and recovered the flung sword with ease.

 _At least_ , Kevin thought, _I will die to a worthy opponent._

“Kill me quickly,” Kevin said.

“No, I don't think so,” the man responded. “I would as soon destroy a stained-glass window as an artist like yourself.”

Then the Man in Black raised his arms and clunked Kevin soundly over the head with the butt of his sword and he was swallowed by darkness.

~

Dean kicked and struggled every step of the way, shifting his weight on Sam's shoulders, making him very difficult to carry.

“Will you stop that already?” Sam asked, stopping abruptly. Dean thrashed harder, as if trying to prove a point.

Abaddon turned around with a sigh, then froze. Sam turned and spotted it as well. In the distance, maneuvering the rocks and crags, the mysterious Man in Black was quickly catching up.

“I hope Kevin's okay,” he mumbled.

“Inconceivable!” Abaddon exclaimed, not hearing, or perhaps not caring, about Sam's words.

“If you don't stop saying that, it's going to become your catch-phrase, and no one will take you seriously,” Sam said.

Abaddon shot him a murderous glare. “You stay here, you kill him your way, you understand me? I'll take Dean.”

Before Dean could think of a way to use the change of plans to his advantage, Abaddon had thrust a knife to his chin and nodded to Sam. He adjusted the rope binding Dean until his legs were freed and only his hands were secured. The end of the rope was placed in Abaddon's hands, effectively putting Dean on a leash.

She dug the blade into his skin, just a bit, and bared her teeth. “You're coming with me. And if you don't, I'll slit your pretty little throat.”

Dean swallowed, and Sam watched as the action dug the blade in enough to bring beads of blood to the surface. The prince did not struggle further.

“And what exactly do you want me to do? What way is 'my way'?” Sam asked.

Abaddon rolled her eyes. “Why do I always have to do all of the work. You,” she said, pointing the knife at him, “hide behind that rock.” She turned the blade to a boulder. “When he comes by, clunk him over the head with that rock.” Again, she indicated the intended weapon.

Sam frowned. “My way doesn't sound very fair.”

“Screw fair!” Abaddon half screamed. “You signed up for this. Kill him and let's get on with it. Catch up to me when you're done.”

She gave a tug to Dean's new leash and began yanking him down the terrain. He went reluctantly enough, but as he didn't have much choice, he shuffled along where the woman led.

Sam, on the other hand, did not do as the woman had led. He did not hide behind the boulder at all, but rather, sat upon it to wait. He would not kill the Man in Black in cold blood without at least giving him a fighting chance. Sometimes Sam feared his heart was as dark as the Man in Black's attire, but he tried to be a better man, one he hoped his real family would have been proud of. Or at least not ashamed of.

He didn't have to wait long for the Man in Black to clear the bend in the trail. He chucked a rock in his direction, intentionally aiming for it to smash against another boulder, near the man's head.

“I did that on purpose,” Sam called as the Man in Black turned in shock to look at him.

“I believe you,” the man said smoothly. “What now?”

“We fight,” Sam said. “Bare hands against bare hands. I... don't relish this, but Abaddon ordered it, and so I must. And since I must, it should be fair.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why must you?” the Man in Black elaborated.

Sam licked his lips. “It's... complicated. I have no family, haven't since I was a boy. She's all I have.”

Though he was wearing a black bandanna, Sam could see his eyebrows raise. “Is that so?” the man asked, his voice keen.

Sam bristled. This man, he had no idea what Sam had been through, how crap his life had been, how desperately he wanted to find the ones he was meant to call family. He'd been kidnapped when he was young, that much he had parsed together after years with Azazel. The bastard had admitted to conning his parents and kidnapping him to raise as his own just minutes before he conveniently died.

He'd floundered for a while, but now he had Abaddon, and she had resources and the ability to help him if they worked together.

“She's helping me find my family,” he said with a note of finality, like the conversation was closed. The Man in Black didn't seem to get the memo.

“Is she though?” he asked.

Sam screwed up his face and clenched his fists. “She will.”

“I hope she does,” the man said, sounding sincere. “I could have helped you as well, but since you're about to kill me...”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam said. “Shall we?”

“Let's.”

Sam took a swing at the Man in Black and ducked easily, dodging to the side. His next swing was met with another duck, and again, and again.

“Are you teasing me?” the man asked. “I've seen your strength. This isn't a fair match.”

“Just letting you get a few good dodges in so you can die with some pride intact,” Sam said with a little cheek.

“How kind of you,” the man responded. This time, he did sound a little sarcastic.

After that, Sam stepped up his game, coming at the Man in Black with all he had. But the man was fast and slippery and Sam had yet to land a blow.

“You're quick,” he commented.

“And a good thing at that,” the man replied.

For him, yes it was, Sam agreed. For Sam following Abaddon's orders, it was definitely not a good thing. But he'd get the man eventually, he was sure.

“It's interesting that you wear such a mask,” Sam said casually. “Were you burned?”

“Oh no, it's just they're terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future.”

He said it with a straight-face, with no sarcasm or humor, and Sam was beginning to wonder about the man. He was an odd little fellow in some ways. And not _too_ little, only in comparison to Sam himself. Of course everything seemed small in comparison to Sam.

Sam swiped at him again, but the Man in Black dodged the blow, kicked off a nearby rock, spun and landed on Sam's back. Sam grunted loudly.

“Hey!” he complained.

“Still fair,” the Man in Black argued. “No weapons, bare hands.”

That was true. As the man wrapped his arms around Sam's neck and squeezed, Sam realized he was using his size to his advantage instead of letting it hinder him. It was a clever move, one Sam appreciated both as a fighter and a strategist. One he did not appreciate so much in terms of his impending death.

Still, Sam wasn't out yet. He thrust himself backwards and crushed the man into the rock behind them. The man let out all of the air in his lungs, but nonetheless held on tight. Again, a different rock. He tried to reach back, but it was an awkward angle and he couldn't make it work. He tried gripping the man's arms to pull them off, but nothing was succeeding. The world was growing dim along the edges, color fading, vision decreasing to a tunnel in front of him.

There is a moment, when one is losing air, between when one loses consciousness and one loses his life. The Man in Black released his squeeze around the man's throat just in time for him to lose only the first, and not the later. The giant man fell to the ground unconscious, but still breathing.

“I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awake,” the Man in Black said, giving his attacker a long look. What was it about this redheaded woman that attracted men with good souls and made them do bad things?

Shaking his head from his thoughts, the Man in Black retrieved his sword and continued on, following the sounds of an angry woman yelling at a clearly misbehaving and stubborn captive.

~

When Prince Crowley had heard from the groundskeeper Prince Dean had been taken, he rallied the troops immediately to catch the kidnappers and rescue his beloved.

At least, that’s what he’d told his men.

The truth was that he’d hired Abaddon to kidnap Dean and kill him at Guilder’s border. She was given explicit instructions on how to make it look like Dean’s blood was on Guilder’s hands.

Metatron had not lied, Dean was easily the most handsome human being he'd ever seen. Even with his petulance, the people loved him, and it was time for him to die.

Of course Crowley couldn’t risk anyone else stumbling upon Dean’s body and mucking the whole thing up, so they’d worked out the details, agreed on a time, and Crowley rallied his men just shortly after the kidnapping had been set to take place.

The extra bonus was that he didn’t actually have to track anything. He had been given a great talent at making shit up, and he was not ashamed to use it to his benefit when needed.

It was not hard to come up with a few lies that placed them at the top of the Cliffs of Insanity.

Crowley looked around the ledge and stroked his chin as he evaluated the surroundings. “Yep,” he said. “They came this way. There was a duel here.” That part, at least, he wasn’t making up.

Metatron nodded, looking at the footprints in the dirt. “Who won?”

“The loser went off that way,” Crowley said, waving a hand down the hill. “Steps are closer, so he was in no hurry. However, there are faster steps going in that direction, and they meet up with another set.”

“Shall we split up and go both ways?”

Crowley scoffed. “Who gives a toss about the loser. The prince is what matters. We must retrieve Dean from what is clearly the work of Guilder.”

Around them, Crowley's men looked utterly unconvinced but said nothing. No one ever questioned Prince Crowley. The man soon to be king took pleasure in dealing pain, and woe be to him who volunteered for the pain by speaking up.

He motioned for them to follow and they began down the path.

~

The Man in Black did not have to travel far to catch up with the kidnapper. If he had to guess, the woman had given up on making it any suitable distance with the resisting and forceful captive. She sat primly on a log, her legs crossed delicately under a long, red skirt. Dean sat by her side and a makeshift table was set in front of her with a bottle of wine and two goblets. Next to the log was a bundle with further supplies that he assumed she had hid earlier.

“So it is down to you and it is down to me,” she said as he approached. She sat up, grabbed Dean and pulled him close, pressing a blade to his throat. “And if you come any closer, he dies.”

The Man in Black stopped abruptly and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Let me explain-”

“There is nothing to explain,” Abaddon replied. “You're trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen.”

Dean huffed in her grip.

“Perhaps we can reach an agreement,” the Man in Black proposed, taking a step forward.

“Impossible,” she said. “And you are killing him,” she added, digging the blade in. A bead of blood leaked onto the blade and Dean stiffened. The man halted his movement.

“Then we are at an impasse.”

“Apparently,” she said with a huff. “I am no match for you physically and you are no match for my brains.”

The Man in Black's bandanna shifted as he raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She snarled. “It's an insult that you doubt me.”

“Then I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

Abaddon's eyes widened in surprise. She looked to Dean and back to the Man in Black.

“For the prince?” she asked tentatively. The Man in Black nodded. “To the death?” She asked eagerly, again receiving a nod. “I accept.” She sheathed her dagger and grabbed Dean's rope, hauling him to his feet. She wrapped the length of rope around the nearest tree and bound him to it. “Now be a good, pretty little prince and stand here while I outsmart this man.”

Dean shot her daggers with his eyes, but with his mouth still occupied with a rag, he was unable to voice the string of expletives dancing in his head.

When Abaddon returned to her seat, the Man in Black sat across from her and reached inside his vest to a hidden pocket. He pulled out a small vial and handed it to her. “Sniff this, but do not touch,” he said.

She took the vial and passed it beneath her nose. “I smell nothing.”

“What you do not smell is called iocane powder. It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is among the more deadly poisons known to man,” the man explained.

Abaddon waved a hand. “I know what iocane powder is.”

“Hmm,” the Man in Black replied noncommittally. “Pour the wine.”

Two filled glasses of wine were soon sat upon the makeshift table, and the Man in Black took them both and turned his back to Abaddon. When he turned back around, he sat one glass in front of his foe and one in front of himself. Abaddon raised an eyebrow.

“All right. Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right and who is dead.”

“Well,” Abaddon said, shifting in her seat. “That's so easy it's insulting. All I have to do is figure out if are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own goblet or his enemy's.” She tilted her head to the side as she stared at the Man in Black. “You're clearly a great warrior so you would not have put it in your own glass, but you're also smart enough to recognize my intelligence, so you would have anticipated that decision.”

“So you've decided?”

“Absolutely not,” Abaddon scuffed. “The problem is that iocane comes from Australia and everyone knows you can't trust Australians.”

“You're delaying.”

“I am not!” she cried, offended. “You defeated Sam, so you're very strong and may rely on that to save you, but you also defeated Kevin, so you must have studied, and will understand mortality and therefore put the iocane in front of me.”

“You're trying to get me to give something away,” the man said, narrowing his eyes. “It won't work.”

“It already has!”

“Then choose.”

“Very well, I choose— What in the world is that!” she cried suddenly, pointing over the man's shoulder. He turned quickly to look, and while his back was to her, she switched the positions of their wine.

Abaddon was quite proud of herself for that one. “Drink,” she ordered. “You from yours, me from mine.” Her confidence only grew as she saw a smirk form on the Man in Black's lips. She had chosen correctly, no need to reach for the knife after all.

She sipped hers primly, enjoying the drink. She waited until he had drunk and proclaimed her wrong before she started to laugh.

“You only think I'm wrong!” she said in between fits of pleased glee. “I switched our glasses while your back was turned. You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well known is this—never go in against a ginger when death is on the line!”

Abaddon cackled, her head tossed back, not realizing the man's smug look was not fading until it was too late. One moment she was alive, the next moment she was dead. She slid to the side with a grin still upon her wicked face.

The Man in Black stood, dodged her body, and began untying Dean from the tree.

“Who are you?” Dean demanded, his voice full of bravado, trying vainly to mask his terror.

“One not to be trifled with,” he answered, his voice sounded even deeper and rougher in Dean's ear.

Dean was, however, still staring at the recently deceased. Because Dean was a beautiful man, many incorrectly assumed he lacked intelligence. And he didn't try too hard to change that impression. The misconception had served him well. But he was, indeed, both smart and intuitive.

“You poisoned both cups,” he reasoned.

The man paused and looked at Dean, but when Dean turned to meet his eyes, he flickered his gaze back to the knots. “Yes,” he said. “I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder.” He touched a hand briefly to his throat. “Did a number on my throat though.”

Dean knew then that he would not flee once his legs and hands were unbound. He knew who this man was. His skills, the clothing. He was the bastard who had taken Castiel from him. To think he'd been delivered straight into his hands. Revenge was one smart move away. So when the Man in Black had freed him and pulled his arm for him to follow, he came willingly.

They worked their way across the rocky landscape, skirting the edge of steep cliffs. Dean had no idea where he was being led, but he needed to distract the man.

“If you let me go, no one will hurt you,” Dean said. “I promise.”

The Man in Black, to his surprise, scoffed. “Whatever you say, liar.”

“Oh gee, that's rich, coming from a murderer,” Dean chided.

“Abaddon poisoned herself with her ignorance and pride,” the man grumbled. It made something pulse in Dean's stomach.

“That's not what I was talking about,” Dean said. “I know who you are, Dread Pirate Roberts.”

The man turned and stared at him for a moment. “Clever. Yes, that is me. How can I assist?”

“You can die a thousand deaths.”

“That seems a little extreme,” Roberts commented. “In what way have I wronged you?”

“You killed someone I loved,” Dean explained, the pain threatening to overwhelm. Instead, he used it to add further fuel to his anger.

“Is that so?” Roberts asked. “Was he also a prince, rich and cruel like Crowley?”

“No,” Dean said, taking a deep breath and taking another step. “He was a farm boy. And he was beautiful and perfect and I loved him with everything I had. And you took him from me.”

Roberts paused now, head tilting to the side as he blinked. “A young man with dark hair and remarkable eyes?”

“Yes,” Dean spat, clenching his fists.

“Tell me, Dean,” Roberts continued now, his voice taking a dangerous tone, “You believed him dead, why? Did you go looking for him? Did it ever cross your mind that perhaps he was alive and waiting for you to rescue him?” He shook his head as Dean's anger went from a simmer to a boil. “Tell me, your highness, did you wait a day before becoming engaged to Crowley, or did you spare a whole week in deference to 'the dead'?”

The fact that Roberts had used finger quotes and it looked kinda dorky, cute, and familiar did nothing to ease the rage that Roberts had ignited in his gut. This man had killed Castiel and now he was trying to make _Dean_ feel bad for it?

Aw, fuck no.

“Don't mock me,” Dean growled. “I died that day. I died so completely that I am dead even now. And you can die too, you son of a bitch!”

Dean shoved the Man in Black hard, and he toppled easily. He felt one brief moment of vindication before the man's words called up to him and sent chills down his spine.

“As you wish,” he cried as he fell.

“Oh god,” Dean said to himself, his stomach rolling.

Was it possible? Truly? Cold shock ran down Dean's spine with the dawning realization. It would certainly explain his anger if he had been alive this whole time and thought Dean was faithless and had just abandoned him when he needed Dean most. It would explain why he diverted his gaze when Dean had tried to catch them, knowing his ocean blue eyes would reveal his secret. But what had happened? What had taken him so long to come back? Why was he dressed as the Dread Pirate Roberts?

All these questions and more flashed through Dean's mind in an instant, but none of them mattered.

What mattered was that he'd just thrown Castiel down a cliff.

“Shit!” Dean exclaimed. “Cas!”

There was no time to waste on finding a better way down. He picked his way down the cliff as fast as he could, sliding some, scrapping his arms and legs on bramble and debris and caring for nothing but reaching Castiel.

He was at the bottom of the ravine, laying on his back and breathing hard, eyes shut tight when Dean made it to him.

“CAS!” he cried, falling on him carelessly. Castiel grunted in pain. “Oh thank god, I thought I'd killed you!” Dean kissed him hard on the lips. Castiel grunted again, though it had a happy note to it this time.

“Yes, well,” Castiel said, “that did appear to be your intent.”

“Damn it Cas, I thought you were your murderer!” Dean cried. “Of course I wanted you dead.” He pulled back a fist and punched Castiel hard in the arm. “Why the hell didn't you tell me it was you?”

Castiel grunted for the third time and tried to roll away. “I thought you didn't love me anymore. You never came for me, and I found you engaged to another.”

“You were dead,” Dean said flatly.

“I wasn't though,” Castiel added softly. “Besides, Death cannot stop True Love. All it can do is delay it for a while."

Dean stared at Castiel blankly for a moment before laughter bubbled to the surface. “I'm sorry,” Dean said, leaning over him more gently this time. “I'm so sorry, Cas, I won't doubt again. But you have to believe me. I've loved you since the day we met, and I've loved you just as deeply every day since.” He pressed their lips together, gently licking at the seam of their mouths.

“Don't you ever let me believe you're dead one second longer than you have to.” Dean whispered when he pulled back, keeping his fear and his pain as privately between them as possible. Only Impala and the trees back home knew what he went through.

Castiel's eyes flooded with guilt and sympathy as he stroked his thumb across Dean's cheek. “As you wish,” he responded. He reached for his mask and removed it, finally revealing his whole face to Dean. “Though I hope that won't ever be the case again.”

Their respite was shattered when a voice called down to them.

“There!” Crowley shouted. “Hurry, we must rescue Prince Dean!” The fake concern could not have been more apparent to Dean and Castiel.

“Crap,” Dean muttered.

“You could go back with him,” Castiel suggested, his voice thin and distant.

“Are you fucking insane?” Dean asked. “I just got you back.” Castiel smiled at that, his eyes warm with relief and love. “Besides, he thinks you kidnapped me. He'll kill you.”

“Run?” Castiel asked.

“Run,” Dean agreed, helping Castiel to his feet.

They ran through the ravine, tripping over rocks and crevices, Crowley's men still trying to find a way down the cliffs that didn't have a high chance of resulting in head trauma. Thus, Dean and Castiel were far ahead by the time the ravine widened and the ground rapidly turned to mush. They were in a swamp.

“Where the hell are we?” Dean asked as they slowed their pace and picked their way over the slimy ground.

Castiel was in the middle of saying he didn't know when a _pop pop hiss_ sounded nearby and a burst of flame erupted from the ground not five feet away. The jet of fire was almost as tall as they were. It was brief, but left an unmistakable impression on the two adventurous heroes.

“Fireswamps,” Castiel finally stated, as if he were commenting on the color of the grass.

“Fireswamps,” Dean repeated, dubiously.

“This is perfect,” Castiel said, grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him further into the murky terrain. “We'll lose them completely in here.”

“We'll lose ourselves in here,” Dean stated under his breath, watching something huge and slimy slide under the muck. He repressed a shiver. He was a grown ass man that had spent his mourning period in the wilderness, living almost exclusively off the land. How bad could a fire swamp be?


	3. The Fireswamps

_As a note on the previous chapter, I have nothing against Asians or Australians, nor did Goldman have anything against Spaniards. The point, I believe, is that no one, of any nationality, is to be trusted._

_But especially not those Scotsmen._

 

“We'll get them,” Crowley said to Metatron, his voice pitched low enough that his soldiers couldn't hear. “Unless I'm wrong, and I'm never wrong, they just walked into the fireswamps.”

Metatron's eyebrows raised. “We'll have to retrieve their bodies.”

“No,” Crowley said with a shake of his head. “They'll make it out. That man was too skilled, and Dean is too stubborn. Luckily, I know where they'll come out. Gather the troops, we're going around.”

~

They picked their way through the slime and detritus, in no haste to explore deeper. Dean never let go of Castiel's hand, too much in awe that he was able to hold it again when he once thought the man lost forever. It had nothing to do with fear of the slithering things or the random eruptions of flame. If he squeezed a little harder from time to time, Castiel never commented.

“Dean,” Castiel said, interrupting the silence. “I have to know. Why Crowley?”

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, unbalancing Castiel for a moment. “He threatened me,” Dean stated.

Castiel gave him a level look, not impressed. Dean wasn't the type you could threaten in to anything.

Dean sighed. “I thought you were dead, Cas,” Dean explained. “I didn't care about anything except for finding the bastard who killed you and ending them. Crowley had resources.”

Castiel nodded his understanding. Then, “Did you sleep with him?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but Dean could hear the tension in his tone.

“You were gone for years, Cas. You didn't expect me to stay celibate, did you?”

Castiel's shoulders sagged. “No, of course not,” Castiel said, giving a tug to Dean's hand so they could continue walking.

Dean let Castiel stew with the assumption for a few more minutes. He was still feeling a bit petty and mean, considering Castiel had apparently been alive all this time and had _let Dean think he was dead_. Sure, he didn't know that Dean had thought that, but emotions didn't always make sense.

“I didn't sleep with Crowley, Cas,” Dean said. “Nor anyone else.”

Castiel stopped abruptly this time, Dean crashing into him. “Same,” Castiel said, pressing kisses to Dean's lips. “No one. I spent every waking moment thinking of you, planning my way back to you.”

“You owe me a story,” Dean reminded him.

Castiel sighed and continued walking. The sky was getting dark, which could not bode well for them, as the swamp was already unnaturally darker than the tops of the cliffs had been. Though night often left the moon and starlight for sight, something told Dean that would not be the case here.

“What you read in the papers was entirely true,” Castiel explained. “My ship was taken by the Dread Pirate Roberts. I was terrified, but not for my life. For the fear that I would not make it back to you. And so I had pleaded for my life on the grounds of True Love. Something about me...” Castiel shrugged. “He told me he'd spare my life for the night. He said, 'All right Castiel, I've never had a valet, you can try it for tonight. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.'”

Dean squeezed harder at Castiel’s hand. Castiel squeezed back.

“But morning came and went and this continued for days, weeks, and into years, the same thing every night. I spent my days learning anything I could. I was taught swordplay by the best there ever was. I learned about poisons and ways to kill a man.”

Castiel stopped abruptly again, and met Dean's eye before he continued. “To survive, to ensure I would see you again, I discovered parts of myself I never want to be reminded of.”

“Cas,” Dean said softly, pulling him closer. “I'm so sorry you ever had to be, that I didn't save you-”

“Dean—” Castiel said, but Dean cut him off.

“I swear, you'll never have to be that person again.”

Castiel huffed. “Wait, there's more to the story,” he said, continuing into the swamp. “A few days ago, the Dread Pirate Roberts took me to his cabin by the shore and told me his secret. The Dread Pirate Roberts is a title, Dean, not a person. There have been many of them. This one wanted to retire and turn the title over to me. We hired a whole new crew and he came on as second mate, calling me Roberts until he was sure it had stuck, and then he left.”

“Wow,” Dean said with a low whistle. Nearby, a fire jet released into the air, and the sudden, sharp arrival of light reminded them of how dark the area was becoming. “Cas, we have a problem.”

There was a sound of agreement from Cas. He let go of Dean's hand and waded closer to a moss covered tree in the middle of the swamp. A low hanging branch snapped off with ease, and Castiel scraped the moss off on his pants.

“We need something dry,” Castiel said. “That tablecloth would have been lovely.”

“Here,” Dean said, pulling his shirt over his head. He handed it to Castiel, who did not take it. He was too busy gawking at the eye candy buffet that had just been laid out in front of him. Dean blushed. “Cas...”

“Right,” Castiel said, shaking his head. Dragging his eyes away from Dean's chest, lingering just a moment longer on the odd, sunburst shaped birthmark on his left pec.

No one could blame Castiel for being distracted though. The last he'd seen Dean, he'd been soft and boy-like. Now his body had muscles and planes and angles and was truly a gorgeous thing to behold. And yet, it had just enough of a hint of softness to be welcoming and enticing. Dean knew he looked good, but seeing his Castiel—cool, composed, Castiel—approve enough to be distracted by him, it made Dean warm inside.

Castiel wrapped the cloth around the stick and then waited. Dean waited with him. He was fairly certain they were listening for a _pop pop hiss,_ and sure enough, at the first _pop_ , Castiel was moving. He had the reflexes, speed, and grace of a great Bengal tiger. Somehow, he made it to the fire jet ten feet away just as it erupted from the ground. With great pride, Castiel turned to him holding a torch.

“Nice,” Dean said with a grin.

Castiel came back to him, the new torch lighting his path. “Dean,” he said, his eyes trailing past Dean's shoulder. “There's a cave over there.”

“Oh yeah, goody,” Dean responded. “Let's go see what scary things want to eat us in there.”

“Good idea,” Castiel said, taking off in that direction.

“Wait,” Dean said, running to catch up with him, “I was kidding! Bad idea, Cas, BAD idea.”

The cave was damp with swamp at the entrance, but Castiel kept going, so it must have been deeper than it first appeared. By the time Dean had caught up with him, the floor was dry and the entrance was no longer visible. The light from the make-shift torch cast flickering shadows and barely pierced the darkness.

“We are so going to be some huge thing's dinner,” Dean mumbled. Castiel had stopped, so Dean paused behind him, pressing a hand to the small of his back.

“Look,” Castiel said, pointing at a mass on the ground. Dean shivered hard. In the corner, loosely piled like it was casually tossed aside, was a pile of bones. Scrape marks ran deep, indicating that whatever flesh they had contained had been ripped off with massive teeth. The worst part was that there were several similar mounds captured by the light of the fire.

“Awesome,” Dean said. “That's us, in like five minutes.”

Castiel turned to look at Dean. “Since when are you scared of a little adventure, Dean?”

“Since I just got you back and we immediately walked into swamps made of fucking fire and things big enough to eat us,” Dean explained. “I was kind of hoping to enjoy you for a little bit before dying.”

Castiel smirked. “There will be time for that.”

“For being together, or for dying?”

Castiel shook his head and took Dean's hand with his free one. “Come on, let's see how deep this goes.”

Turned out, not much further. They made it past what Dean assumed was a rat's nest, and it wasn't much further until the cave's walls expanded and ended in a curved chamber. There was a stream of moonlight coming through a pinprick hole in the ceiling where some of the cave had worn away. Much to Dean's relief, there were no more gnawed up bones.

“I think we found our sleeping quarters for the night,” Castiel said, stopping in the middle of the space.

“Seriously?” Dean asked.

“It's night, Dean. We can't continue on in the swamp, not with the torch almost out,” Castiel explained. “This is a defensive position.”

Dean sighed. “Fine.”

“I'll snuggle you,” Castiel said with a teasing tone. “Keep you safe. Defend you from the rats.”

“I said FINE, CAS.” He crossed his arms in mock indignation.

It was all for show. Dean had his Cas back. Live and in the flesh. Perfectly–mostly–alright. He'd changed, he was stronger and more self-assured than he'd been before, but Dean had changed too, and yet, they still gravitated towards each other like sunlight to the earthen ground. That's what True Love meant. He'd be content in the swamp, in the rat's nest, on Abaddon's boat, anywhere at all, as long as Castiel was by his side.

Castiel still had to lie down first though, and open his arms wide, before Dean would join him. He pressed into Castiel's side, throwing a leg over him and using his whole body to drag Castiel as close as possible until they were pressed so tightly, they forgot where one ended and the other began. Castiel's hands traced up and down Dean's exposed back, and as the torch slowly flickered out on the ground nearby, Dean pressed his lips into Castiel's.

“Missed you,” he whispered into them.

“Missed you, too,” Castiel whispered back, rocking his hips into Dean. “So much.”

Dean licked at his lips, relishing Castiel's surrender when he parted them and let Dean inside. He explored Castiel's mouth like he'd never done so before. Hell, he'd literally never done so before. Their first time had been passionate and full of love, but it hadn't been fueled by the desperate need spreading through both of their veins now. Dean sucked at Castiel's tongue and Castiel ran his fingers down Dean's back, scrapping gently with his nails and returning Dean's ardor.

“There's something,” Dean began, kissing the exposed skin of Castiel's neck, making him shiver, “I wanna do.”

“Anything,” Castiel responded breathlessly.

Dean began with the buttons on Castiel's black tunic, popping them open one by one and kissing each newly exposed patch of skin. He worked a slow trail down Castiel's chest, Castiel's breaths coming in deep and hard, his hands opening and closing, clenching at his sides.

“Dean,” Castiel said, drawing out the name as Dean swirled his tongue around Castiel's belly button. He was completely gone and Dean hadn't even started yet.

“I got you,” Dean whispered, pressing a kiss just below his belly button. He worked his finger over Castiel's thighs, pushing up until the cloth began to bend around a sizable erection.

Castiel whimpered when all Dean did was gently lick at the skin just at the waistband of his trousers. Slipping his fingers into the material, Dean unfastened Castiel's pants and spread the flap wide, all without touching his cock.

“Deeean,” Castiel complained, wiggling his hips, seeking friction. “You're driving me crazy.”

“I'm taking my time,” Dean explained. “I'm making up for so many years without you. I want-” he kissed Castiel's left hipbone, “-to make this something worth remembering for a lifetime.”

“Every moment,” Castiel panted as Dean switched to his right hipbone, “with you, is worth remembering.”

Dean blushed deeply, lost as to how to respond to such frank love with anything other than a physical gesture. He kissed his way down the ridge and pressed a soft peck to the flared exposed head of his cock. There was just enough light to watch it pulse, as if Castiel's body was reaching out for the heat and moisture that just introduced itself.

A shaky hand was raised and placed gently on Dean's head. “I love you, Dean,” was all Cas said, as Dean watched a pearl of pre-come form at the slit of his cock and then slowly slide down the shaft. Dean groaned and ended all sense of strung out foreplay by leaning forward to lick it all up. “Shit,” Castiel moaned, throwing his head back and arching his back.

“Mmmm,” Dean agreed, licking down and up Castiel's length until he was sure he'd gotten it all. Only, naturally, more was forming and there was only one thing to do about that. He wrapped his lips around the tip of Castiel's cock and sucked hard.

Castiel cried out, writhing beneath Dean.

Dean went fast after that, matching Castiel's needy little thrusts with bobs and swirls of his tongue. He'd never gotten to do this before, but thanks to the sleazy bars he'd frequented for gossip about the Dread Pirate Roberts, he'd heard about what worked. Sure, there was room for improvement, but he was relieved Castiel was enjoying it so much, and even more relieved _he_ was enjoying it so much.

“Dean,” Castiel managed to get out brokenly, “I'm— I'm going to—”

Trying to hum his acknowledgment, Dean sent Cas over the edge with the sensation. Come hit the back of Dean's throat, salty and strong. He let it slide down, swallowing all that Castiel was pumping into him.

The flavor wasn't, perhaps, something he'd go out of his way to taste, but the sounds Castiel was making... he could wrap himself in those and savor them for a lifetime.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Castiel was chanting, rocking his head from side to side. “Oh my god.”

“You liked that, then?” Dean asked with a cocky lilt, crawling over Cas. Castiel's eyes weren't properly focusing on him. He kissed the top of Cas's nose and he finally stilled, his eyes fluttering open and blinking several times before he reached up, curled a hand around Dean's head and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

“Mmmm,” Castiel said when they broke apart. “I can taste myself on your tongue.”

“Yeah?”

“Not so bad.”

“Want a direct comparison?” Dean asked with a smirk, grinding his erection into Castiel's leg.

A slow grin spread across Castiel's face. “What if I said I had a better idea?”

“We're a little limited in supplies here, Cas.”

“Use spit,” Castiel said. “Use spit and fuck me.”

Dean swallowed hard. Just saying things like that should be illegal. And saying no to Cas was going to be the hardest thing he'd ever done. “No,” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “I won't hurt you.”

“You won't,” Castiel argued. “I've been practicing, nothing but spit to ease the way. Being relaxed is more important, and Dean, I'm definitely relaxed.” His dick gave an interested little jerk, but Dean's miraculously still functioning upper brain was not convinced yet. “Trust me. I can handle it. I want it. Dean, I want you _inside of me_.”

Dean groaned and bit at the meat of Castiel's shoulder. He was surrendering, there was no point in denying it any longer.

“We stop the second it hurts, alright?” Dean said, pulling up to look Castiel in the eye and let him know how serious he was.

“Dean—”

“You accept those terms or we don't continue.”

Castiel evaluated him for a moment, his eyes warm and soft. “I accept,” he said softly.

“You'll tell me?”

“I'll tell you,” Castiel agreed.

“Then let's get a little more naked,” Dean said, sitting up and pulling at Castiel's pants.

It didn't take long at all to rid Castiel of the rest of his clothes, and he watched with greedy eyes as Dean pulled off his own. He reached forward to trail his fingers down Dean's chest, sliding sideways to skim his hips, then down his thighs. “I get to explore every inch of this body next time,” Castiel said.

Dean shivered. “Yeah,” he agreed.

Then Castiel flipped over and tucked his face into his arms, spreading his legs.

“Now lick those fingers and wet me up.”

Dean chuckled. “As you wish.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed, “That's my phrase.”

Shaking his head fondly, Dean buried his middle finger in his mouth and got it as wet as he possibly could. Still dripping with spit, he used his other hand to pry Castiel's cheeks open, and swallowed at the site of Castiel's puckered entrance. As he watched, Castiel squeezed his muscles and his hole contracted with the action.

“Jesus,” Dean whispered. He pressed the tip of his finger to the rim and watched in amazement as it slid inside easily. He pumped his finger a few times, Castiel sighing contentedly and relaxing even further. One finger became two, two became three, and soon Castiel was moaning into his arms, thrusting back into Dean.

“Told you—” Castiel panted, “—I'd be fine.”

“Yes you did,” Dean agreed, crooking his fingers and running over a spot that felt a little rougher than the rest of Castiel's insides. _Found it_.

Castiel shuddered, bowing his head. Pressing on that spot seemed like an effective way of getting him to shut up and start losing it all over again.

“You,” Castiel barely managed to get out. “You,” he repeated. He shook his head. “Want you.”

“Flip over,” Dean said, pulling out his fingers. Castiel complied, and though it looked like he tried to move fast, his limbs were like jello. His cock was dribbling pre-come like he hadn't just had one of the best orgasms of his life. He was one happy pirate.

Dean hummed as an idea came to him. He took Castiel's dick in his hand and gathered as much of the pre-come as he could.

  
“Mmm,” Castiel moaned. “That is nice, but I thought you were going to get inside me.”

“I'm working on it,” Dean replied, rubbing the pre-come down his own cock, mixing it with his own. It was more slick than spit alone.

Castiel nodded and adjusted his legs, spreading them wide and bending at the knee.

Dean swallowed. “You tell me-”

“I will.”

Leaning over Castiel, Dean held himself as he guided the head of his cock to Castiel's loosened entrance. He slid in just past the rim far easier than he'd been expecting. Castiel's body was welcoming him in.

Castiel's hand touched his face gently, running his fingers over Dean's cheekbones. “Perfect,” he whispered, as Dean slipped in further.

There was some resistance at the end, and a muscle in Castiel's cheek twitched. Dean froze.

“I'm fine,” Cas insisted. Dean looked doubtful. “I'm fine,” he repeated more gently. “Just... go slow.”

Dean kissed his lips. “Yeah?”

“Rock into me,” Castiel repeated. Dean gently moved his hips, pulling back just enough to create a little friction, and pushing back in just as carefully.

“Like this?”

“Like that,” Castiel said, with a happy sigh. “You feel incredible.”

“Mmm,” Dean agreed, pressing another kiss to his lips. “You too.”

The soft kisses slowly turned into deep, soul consuming things as Dean pressed in close and rocked into Castiel's body. They were attached and connected in every way imaginable. If they could have managed it, their bodies would have become one. They already were in spirit.

Castiel panted in pleasure, breaking their kiss by throwing back his head, exposing the long column of his neck.

“You're really enjoying this,” Dean commented, bending to nibble at the skin.

“Yes,” Castiel said breathlessly. “It's you.”

Dean rocked in a little harder at that and Castiel gasped. Dean froze momentarily and then Castiel was shaking his head.

“More,” Castiel croaked.

And so Dean gave him more. He rocked harder and faster, dragging his cock back and forth inside Castiel. His own cock was leaking pre-come now, and the movements were getting easier, letting him rub over Castiel's prostate, making his lover moan and squeeze Dean's shoulders so tight, he was going to leave marks.

Castiel was thrusting up into him, hips twisting, his cock rubbing on Dean's belly. He was not complacent to just receive, at least not any longer, taking some control of the situation and chasing his orgasm just as much as Dean was.

“Fuck,” Dean let out. “Cas, Cas, Cas,” Dean chanted, peppering kisses to Castiel's shoulders.

Their lips were sealed together again as the pace became frantic and all concern for going slow was lost.

“Dean,” Castiel echoed, before arching hard and shouting, “Dean!”

Castiel tightened around Dean, his body releasing in spurts as his second orgasm for the evening washed over him. It was too hot, too tight, too much, and Dean followed him a second later, right over the same precipice.

The world went dark.

Dean awoke some amount of time later to fingers caressing his damp backside. He tried to rise up but discovered he was glued to the warm, welcoming body beneath him.

“Ah,” Castiel said with a tiny chuckle. “That would be my fault.”

It took Dean a moment. “Oh. Ew,” Dean said with no real discontent. He laughed into Castiel's neck. “We're in a cave, in the fireswamps, naked, with no food, and our biggest current problem is that we're sealed together by come.”

Castiel kissed his ear. “I'll take it,” he said. “It could be worse.”

“Cas,” Dean groaned, “you never say that. Wasn't that the first thing they taught you in pirate school?”

“Must have skipped that class,” Castiel replied.

“Hey,” Dean said, lifting his head, “Do you still have that mask?”

“Really, Dean?” Castiel asked. “I don't think I have another orgasm in me right now. I'll wear it another time and fuck _you_ senseless.”

Dean shuddered as a wave of desire went through him. That definitely made for a lovely picture.

Still. “Not what I meant, Mr. Orgasmic,” Dean said. He shoved himself up, making a face at the tug of flesh and the squelch of them unsealing. “We can use it to clean us up.”

Castiel pouted. “But it's my mask...”

Dean's face said just how unimpressed he was with that. “We'll get you a new one. One with lace and gemstones and all the finest-” He was cut off when Castiel punched him in the shoulder playfully.

“Fine,” he said. “It's in my pocket. In my pants. Wherever they got tossed.”

The mask wasn't the best method of cleaning them up, but it sufficed. After Dean got them both clean, he pulled his clothes back on, and Cas reluctantly did the same. The temperature was dropping in the cave.

Castiel stopped to rub his nose across Dean's cheek. “I would very much like to lay down with you now.”

“Again? So soon? Without _the mask_?” Dean asked with fake surprise and insinuation.

With a roll of his eyes, Castiel lay down on the ground. “I'm saying that I spent many, many lonely nights without you in my arms and only one with you in them, and I think it's time to rectify that.”

Dean chuckled and complied easily. He crawled into Castiel's arms and pulled him close. The ground was hard, the air was too chilly, but with the sound of Castiel's heartbeat steady in his ear, Dean drifted off to sleep with no complaints.

He awoke to Castiel's fingers trailing through his hair. It was starting to grow lighter in the cave, but it was still pleasantly dark. He sighed contentedly.

“We can do anything we want now,” Castiel said gently. “I'll pass on my title and we can do anything.”

“Let Roberts die,” Dean mumbled into his shoulder. “It will make me feel better.”

Sure, Cas was never actually dead, and he was, in some sort of really bizarre twist of irony, the very person Dean had been seeking vengeance on, but he'd spent a long time bent on killing Roberts. Besides, the title was that of a pirate, surely one less pirate in the world was a good thing.

As if he could hear Dean's thoughts, Castiel said, “I can let Roberts die, though someone will take his place. Killing Roberts doesn't kill piracy.”

Dean sighed and squeezed Castiel closer. “Let's just move on, Cas.”

His sentence was punctuated with a deep rumble from his gut. Castiel chuckled while Dean groaned and rolled into a sitting position. He placed a hand on his stomach.

“Shoot me, I haven't eaten in almost a day now.”

Cas got to his feet and looked at the hole in the ceiling before offering Dean a hand and helping him stand. “I think it's light enough to move on. We should be able to get through the swamps quickly.”

As they walked back down the cave, which was decidedly shorter than Dean remembered from on their way in, Castiel listed off the hazards of the swamp and what they knew about them.

There were three main threats of the fire swamps. Fire spurts, lightning sand, and ROUSs—rodents of unusual size. They'd only encountered the fire spurts thus far, and they would be easy to avoid, with the pop pop sound that preceded it. The lightning sand should be easy to spot and that left the ROUSs, which, quite frankly, neither of them were worried about. For one, they'd grown up on a farm and a few rodents were the last thing that would intimidate either of them. For another, Dean and Cas seemed to agree that they probably weren't real.

That was until one of the supposed imaginary beasts made its reality known.

They'd just exited the cave when it darted from the side and dove straight for Castiel. Deep fangs sank into Castiel's shoulder and he was knocked to the ground, letting out a scream that sent chills down Dean's spine.

“Cas!”

Frantically, Dean searched the swamp floor for something to use as a weapon. Castiel thrashed against the beast, easily the size of his entire torso, while Dean found a rock and raised it. He hit the rat in the skull and it let out a shriek, but only clung on tighter.

From nearby a pop rang out in the air and Dean and Castiel had the same idea at the same time.

“The fire!” Dean shouted, but Castiel was already rolling in the direction of the pop. He'd have to time it well if he was going to manage to set the rat ablaze, but not himself.

Fortunately, Cas had just spent the past few years working on timing and surviving by the skin of his teeth. He turned the rat into the flame spurt just as it erupted from the ground. The rat unlatched then and fled in erratic movements, screeching loudly as it burned. Castiel spun away from the fire.

“Shit,” Dean cursed, sinking to his knees at Castiel's side. “Fuck, how do I stop the bleeding, we're already down a shirt and a mask!”

“Mine,” Castiel bit out. Screw bleeding out, he'd be lucky if that wound didn't get infected.

Dean's hands quickly, if not shakily, undid Castiel's shirt and guided it off of him. Castiel clinched his teeth and Dean worked it off the arm with the bite at the shoulder.

He balled up the shirt and pressed it to the bleeding wounds.

“Breathe, Cas,” Dean said, just as much a reminder for himself as it was for Castiel.

For a tense moment, Dean applied pressure while Castiel tried to slow down his breaths, taking deeper ones and sliding them out gently. He was in pain, and Dean knew it, and he could bite his own tongue off in worry.

“I'll be fine,” Castiel said after a few minutes. Dean didn't move. “Dean, the pain is... I'm fine. Check the bleeding.”

Dean reluctantly moved the shirt to the side. It was no longer gushing blood, but it definitely was not a clean wound, all red and puffy, bits of skin flayed and ragged. “Now we could use that wine,” Dean commented.

“If only we'd taken the whole picnic with us,” Castiel said with a chuckle. “Help me up, we just need to get out of this place. My boat isn't far.”

Once Castiel was on his feet, he sure looked a lot less like he was about to die. He was stable on his feet and even gave his arm a test stretch. He winced.

“It's just a flesh wound,” Castiel said. “I've had worse.” Dean still didn't look convinced however. “C'mon.” Castiel took his right hand in Castiel's good-left, and he pulled Dean on deeper into the swamp.

They made good time for a while after that, Dean thinking they might just get out of this alive. He'd dropped Castiel's hand and was picking his way across the forest floor, daydreaming about what they would do when they got out of this place. Which was probably why he was distracted enough to not notice the swamp floor change.

One second he was on solid ground, and the next he was in a dry, gritty pit of sand, in over his head, and sinking deeper.

Castiel watched it happen and through sheer willpower and training, managed to keep the panic in check. Planning, strategy, that's what his brain was good at in a bind. Craftiness was his first nature and he worked his way out of tricky situations before anyone else realized there was one. It's what made him such a good pirate and swordsman. You can teach sword fighting, but you can't teach quick wit.

In this case, he focused in on a curled up mass of thick vine and determined that it was secured to the tree it grew from. Pulling a length of it down and wrapping it tightly around his wounded arm and ignoring the pain, he jumped into the pit of lightning sand.

It was dark and he couldn't breathe and the sand worked into every hole he had with quick efficiency. He was going to have to be very fast if he was to save Dean. And himself.

Though one sunk in head deep at first drop, the descent luckily slowed after that. Thanks to Castiel's quick thinking, he was on level with Dean in a moment, feeling Dean's shoulder bump into his gut. He snaked his arm down and under Dean's armpit, pulling him close.

Dean, most fortunately, was also smart and quick witted, and once he caught on to the fact that he was being rescued, moved his arms through the grit and around Castiel's waist. This gave Castiel two free hands to work at the vine and pull them both out of the pit.

They broke the surface with mutual gasps and sputtering breaths. They collapsed and rolled on solid ground, sputtering up sand and detritus.

“God,” Dean moaned, shaking his head and knocking lightly next to his ear, trying to get more sand out, “That shit got everywhere.”

“Please,” Castiel begged, doing a similar sand removal dance, “don't walk into any more lightning sand traps.”

“I don't plan on it.”

They lay on the ground panting for a few more moments, until something shimmied through the underbrush nearby. Dean got to his feet quickly, not wanting to be caught on his back if they were about to be attacked. Fortunately, whatever it was seemed to have other ideas and scurried away.

He bent to give Castiel a hand and his eyes traced over the wound on Castiel's shoulder.

“That looks worse,” he stated, once Castiel was on his feet. His face was full of worry.

Castiel stood up straighter, as if that would somehow convince Dean he wasn't injured. “Let's get out of here. I think we're close.”

Dean kept his mouth shut. Castiel had to be in severe pain. He had been bitten by a ginormous, probably disease ridden rat, and before the wound had even scabbed, rubbed dirty silt into the wound while ripping it open further with muscle use. Yeah, if Castiel was anyone else, they'd probably be whimpering or passed out on the ground.

“Stay close,” Castiel suggested as he once again led the way. “Here,” he said, reaching out a hand.

Dean felt a little like he was being babied for the mistake he just made with the lightning sand, but since he felt a little more secure with Castiel's hand in his own, a little more certain Castiel wasn't going to just disappear on him, he didn't complain.

They could tell they were approaching the edge of the swamp. The air smelled cleaner, the light was a little brighter. The trench that the swamp was in was narrowing, until, pushing aside the low hanging branches of one final tree, they were out. They were on dry, rocky ground, a beach in the distance, and the outline of a boat just beyond that.

Of course, because life is just that fair, none of these comforts could really be enjoyed. Crowley and a group of his goons stood before them.

“Surrender!” Crowley ordered.

“You wish to surrender to me?” Castiel asked with a twitch of his eyebrow. “Very well, I accept.”

Dean snorted from next to him.

Crowley bristled and eyed Castiel up and down, measuring his strength and threat. Even with the nasty wound in his shoulder, Castiel made for an impressive man. Then Crowley's eyes slid to Dean.

“Darling,” Crowley crooned. “You look a mess.”

Castiel bristled sharply and stepped dramatically in front of Dean. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well, it isn't called the Ocean Spa Swamp, now is it?”

Crowley did that little “heh” thing that meant he was laughing. He understood Dean's sense of humor. If he wasn't such a dick that Dean didn't trust as far as he could throw him, they probably could have been friends.

“Well we'll clean you up at the palace,” Crowley responded. “We do have a spa, you know. Once we have you safely home-”

“No,” Dean replied, and Castiel shifted his legs, fortifying his defensive position.

“No?”

“No,” Dean repeated. “I'm going with Cas.”

“That's not going to happen,” Crowley said, his humor slowly turning sour. “Surrender, _Cas_ ,” he ordered, voice loud and fake sounding once more. “You've captured the prince and confused him. Surrender. Now.”

“No.”

“Don't be daft, hand him over-”

“Never!”

Crowley's eyes flickered just slightly and it was enough for Dean to figure the rest out. This little meeting wasn't private. On the cliffs and concealed behind boulders, he could just make out the gleam of crossbow bolts. They were not leaving here alive if they continued to resist.

“Surrender now!”

“Death first!” Castiel roared.

As Crowley raised his arm, Dean flung himself forward and shouted, “Swear you won't hurt him!”

“What?” Crowley asked, turning back to Dean.

“What?” Castiel echoed, looking at him as if he were crazy. Dean shifted his eyes to the side, where one group of archers sat, hoping Cas would follow his look and understand.

“I'll go with you, but only on the condition that you swear not to hurt him. Return him to his ship, unharmed, and I'm yours,” Dean said, his heart shuddering in his chest. He was lying, of course, nothing would stop him from finding Cas again, even if they didn't take him to his ship as Crowley was about to promise.

“May I live a thousand years and never harm again,” Crowley said, somehow making it sound sincere enough. He gestured for Dean to come forward.

Dean shared a glance with Castiel before he left. Castiel looked sad and maybe even disappointed. But he was alive, and that meant everything.

Crowley made one of his men give up a horse for Dean, and then took the reins in his own hand to ensure he would stay close. He whispered something to one of his men, one dressed better than the others and clearly not a regular guard, before he began to lead Dean away.

“Cas,” Dean called out, looking back, “Don't forget what I said about not forgetting again.”

It was as much as he dared say, but the uptick of the corner of Castiel's mouth told him that Cas had understood and remembered the promise Dean had made when they were first reunited. That he wouldn't forget that nothing could stop True Love.

As Dean was ushered away, Castiel was left with still-bored guards and the well-dressed man, who was shooting Castiel a look that made the hair rise on his neck. And that wasn't something that happened easily.

“Come, we'll take you to your ship,” he said.

“Don't,” Castiel said, his voice deep and extra gravelly with sand. “We are men of action, lies do not become us.”

The man smirked. “Well said.” He gestured again with his hand and Castiel's eyes fixated on the movement. While it was possible he was wrong, somehow he knew he was not. “What?” the man asked, shifting awkwardly under the stare.

“Six fingers,” Castiel remarked. “Someone was looking for you.”


	4. The Torture

Dean was a prisoner and he knew it. Sure, the guards outside his room, the ones that followed him to the dining hall and the few places he was allowed to roam, were placed there under the pretense of protecting him, but he was no fool. They were there to keep him from leaving. Whatever Crowley wanted him for, it certainly wasn't for a loving and healthy relationship.

He'd told Dean that Castiel had left on his ship. Which was undoubtedly a lie, but there wasn't much he could do about it except wait and hope for either his opening to escape, or for Castiel to come to him.

But as the days began to trickle by and Castiel did not come to him, Dean began to worry. What had happened to him? Had Crowley done something to him after all? It wouldn't surprise him, but it made Dean withdrawn and moody nonetheless.

“He's been like that since the swamps,” Crowley had said to his right-hand man Metatron at dinner one night. He likely did not know Dean could still hear him from where he was slinking away. “It's my mother's failing health that troubles him.”

“Of course,” Metatron had replied. Several of Crowley's court nodded their agreement.

The idea of mourning Queen Rowena was endlessly amusing to Dean and he had to leave the room to laugh his hysterics in private.

~

Castiel had been personally escorted by the man with six fingers through a trap door hidden in a tree into a dungeon. That had been indicator enough that what was in store could not, on any level, be a good thing.

Fortunately, he did have a trick card up his sleeve. Years of practice with his predecessor and a predisposition for a strong mind honed a unique ability to shrug off pain. He simply slid his conscious mind away from the part that was hurting and ignored it. It could take a moment, especially if he was caught unaware like he was with the rat, but that was a rare and blessed skill indeed.

Whatever they had planned, he could handle it.

There was a small, round albino who helped the six fingered man lay him out on a table and strap him down. They exchanged whispered words and then the six fingered man left. That, Castiel was not expecting.

Nor was he expecting the albino to pick up a rag and begin to clean his wound.

“This is the Pit of Despair,” the man said with a shockingly rough and rattling voice, one straight out of a comedy act. He cleared his throat and said in a more normal tone that only further confused Castiel, “Don't even think about escaping. Those chains are thick and secure. And rescue would be impossible, as only I and Count Metatron know about this place.”

“Am I to die here?”

The albino nodded, his double chin jiggling. “Eventually, yeah.”

“Then why are you cleaning my wound?” Castiel asked, genuinely curious. Though he had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer. As the albino grinned, he knew he would not like the answer.

“They like 'em healthy before they break 'em.”

“Torture,” Castiel said, confirming his suspicions. “That's alright, I can withstand torture.” He said it confidently, but the albino's laughter sent goosebumps flashing across his arms. “You don't believe me?”

The albino rinsed the now red rag in a bowl and pressed it again to his wound. “I do believe you,” he said. “You survived the swamps and are clearly quite strong. You're not flinching or whimpering now, despite how badly this wound must hurt. But trust me, no one, no one at all, has ever withstood-” his eyes darted to the side and his lips curled up at the corner, “The Machine.”

~

“BOO!!!” an old crone from the audience shouted at Dean. “Booooo!!!”

He was greeting the people of Floren as their new, official Prince. He and Crowley had just been wed. The beautiful fabric of Dean's wedding outfit had been itchy and hot, and Crowley had leered at him the whole time, but the deed was done. He would be King with Crowley when Rowena passed.

Crowley had taken them from the chapel to the audience outside and presented him. Almost everyone had cheered to a deafening roar.

“Booooo!!!” the old woman continued.

“Dude,” Dean called out to her, “What is your problem?”

“You had love in your hands and you gave it up,” she croaked. She had warts on her wrinkled nose, a back with a horrible hump. She was ugly by any standard, but she was right, and it made Dean feel uglier than her.

“They were going to kill him...” Dean mumbled. He trailed off. Something wasn't right, but his brain was too fuzzy to figure it out. “We'll find a way-” he tried.

She would hear none of it though, not while they were standing in the wedding chapel with Crowley. “Your true love lives! And you marry another.” She turned to the faceless crowd. “True Love saved him in the fireswamp, and he treated it like garbage. And that's what he is, the King of Refuse. So bow down to him if you want, bow to him. Bow to the King of Slime, the King of Filth, the King of Putrescence. Boo! Boo! Rubbish! Filth! Slime! Muck! Booooo!”

Dean awoke in a cold sweat to the echoes of those boos rattling in his brain. It wasn't the first time he'd had that dream. No matter how much he told himself that it wasn't his fault and he'd made the best decision he could at the time, he still felt like crap. Especially as days ticked by and Castiel was still gone.

It was time to do something about this.

He got out of bed and went straight to Crowley's office. It was early morning, he would be up. Dean didn't even knock and wait to be invited in. He invited himself.

“Dean,” Crowley said with mild surprise. He rose from his seat. “You don't mind...?” Crowley said to his companion. From the side of the room, Metatron motioned with his six fingered hand for Crowley to continue.

“What is it, my sweet?” Crowley crooned, coming to guide Dean to a seat. Dean shrugged off his hand, and bristled at the endearment.

“Here it is. I love Castiel,” Dean stated bluntly. “He's it for me, Crowley. If you keep me here, if you keep these guards on me, if you make me marry you in 10 days, then I will jump right out my damn window. And if the fall kills me, so be it. If it doesn't, well. I will crawl my way to Cas if I have to.”

“Good god, there's no need for that,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. “Consider the wedding off.” He turned to Metatron. “You took this Cas... Cas-tee-el to his ship?”

“Of course,” Metatron answered smoothly.

“Then we will have to send for him. Though, dear, are you sure he still wants you? You left him, after all, and he hasn't come back for you as of yet.”

Dean bit his lips to keep himself from saying things he shouldn't. That cut a little too close to the bone. But Dean had learned his lesson. He had to have faith in Castiel, in their love. “He does. He loves me as much as I love him.” He slid his eyes to the side, to Metatron. “Assuming he's still alive.”

“Oh, he was very much alive the last I saw him,” Metatron assured him. Dean believed him, but somehow, it wasn't terribly comforting.

“Well then,” Crowley said. “He can't be far. We'll send our fastest ships in all directions, run up the white flag. If he still loves you and wants you, then my blessing to you.” Crowley patted Dean's shoulder. “But if he doesn't come, consider marrying me as alternative to a body cast?”

Dean left feeling as if he'd been manipulated, and was wholly dissatisfied with the whole thing. But with so many guards following him, all he could do was wait. Well. Wait and plot and plan, maybe. There had to be other ways out of this.

But regardless what Crowley said or did, Castiel was a fucking pirate, and that tipped the odds heavily in his favor. His Cas was pretty kick ass.

~

“I must say, I'm going to regret having to strangle such a pretty boy on our wedding night,” Crowley said not twenty minutes later. “And not in the erotic way.”

He was taking a morning stroll with Metatron, walking him to the Pits of Despair. Nothing like the prospect of torture and clean morning air to get you going in the day.

“He is quite the creature.” Metatron agreed.

“But it will be so much more satisfying than having Abaddon do it. The people love him even more now and his death will ignite a glorious war when we blame it on Guilder.”

Metatron nodded. His fingers were tracing over the trunk of the tree they had just arrived at. “I can never find the knot,” he mumbled. Then his fingers traced over the trigger and he pressed it. The panel in the tree slid open. “Coming? Castiel has his strength back. I'll be starting him on The Machine.”

“You know how I love watching you work,” Crowley crooned. “But I've got my wedding to arrange, my husband to murder, and Guilder to frame for it. I'm swamped!”

“Get some rest. If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything.”

~

The Machine sat behind Castiel's head, and therefore, he didn't have to stare at it and wonder what the thing was going to be doing. He had a pretty good idea, anyway.

Metatron confirmed his suspicions at his next arrival.

“Splendid,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I see you're feeling better.”

“Quite,” Castiel confirmed.

“Now then,” Metatron said, moving to the machine behind Castiel's head. He reappeared in Castiel field of vision with suctions cups. They were attached to tubes, which Castiel assumed connected them to the torture device. “Took me a year and a half to design and construct her,” Metatron explained as he applied the suction cups to his torso. “She's my pride and joy. I'm sure you've noticed by now my deep and abiding love for pain?”

Castiel nodded the affirmative.

“At present I'm writing the definitive novel on the subject. So I want you to be as honest with me as possible about how The Machine makes you feel. This being your first time, we'll start with the lowest setting.”

Metatron disappeared behind him one more time and Castiel heard a lever slide and then click into place. The sound of running water and turning gears filled the air, winding up Metatron's beloved beauty, and soon Castiel was writhing on the table in agony.

Or at least, that's what it looked like to Metatron. Castiel slid his mind away, and while his body was going through the torments of The Machine, Castiel was completely divorced from the pain.

He was dreaming of Dean, of course. Of their time together in the swamp, and then of their childhood together. How Dean could be so stubborn, and yet so full of heart. He thought of Dean's brilliant mind, his deep green eyes and adorable bow legs. He could think about Dean until there was no room left in his mind for anything else.

Castiel would not have even noticed the machine being turned off if it hadn’t been for Metatron speaking up.

“The concept of the suction cup has been around for ages. This is quite the same, only instead of sucking water, I'm sucking life. You just lost one year of your life.” Metatron explained. “So again, this is for posterity. Be honest, how did The Machine make you feel?”

Castiel could only think of one thing to say, and that was 'Fuck you.' Instead, he let out a whimper.

“Interesting.”

~

“Samuel,” Crowley called from behind his big, posh desk. “Get in here.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You've been a loyal dog, and as my chief enforcer, I'm going to trust you with some information,” Crowley began, from behind his desk. It was a big, intimidating desk, and he enjoyed the additional authority it imbued him with. “Assassins from Guilder have infiltrated the Thieves Forest and plan on ruining my wedding by killing my intended.”

“My spies have heard nothing of the sort,” Samuel objected.

“Yes, well-”

He was interrupted by Dean, who had just popped his head in the door. “Any word?”

“Patience, my pet,” Crowley responded. Dean bristled before he stormed off. Crowley knew he didn't like the pet names, but he insisted on using them anyway. Not only for appearance's sake, but partly because Dean was cute when he was riled up.

He opened his liquor chest and poured himself a drink before turning back to Samuel and continuing. “You will clear out the Thieves Forest. It will be empty on my wedding day.”

“The thieves will resist, and I don't have enough-” Samuel responded.

“Then form a Brute Squad!” Crowley yelled, like he was angry that Samuel was making this hard. He wasn't angry at all. He wanted the Brute Squad. That's how word would spread that Guilder was in the land and plotting bad things. That's how you begin a war. “Just clear the damn place out.”

“That will be difficult.”

Crowley tossed back his glass of liquor. “Yeah, well. Try ruling the world sometime.”

~

Kevin slammed back another shot of whiskey, making for god knows how many. He'd had too many that day to keep track. In fact, he'd had too many in the last week to even know what day it was.

When he'd come to on the rocky Cliffs above Eel Bay, Kevin had taken off down the path for Sam, and discovered where he must have scuffled with the Man in Black, but there was no Sam. He traveled further down the path where he discovered the remains of a picnic, two wine glasses and a tablecloth, but no one else.

Abaddon had been his hope, his ticket to the six fingered man. She had connections, hell, she probably knew the man herself. He _needed_ her.

There was a protocol in place for this situation. Go back to the beginning and regroup. So he went back to the beginning—the bar he and Sam had been recruited in—and waited.

And while he waited, he drank. He drank until the walls swam, and he planned on doing that for as long as his tab would hold out. He'd been there for days, earning a few drinks by helping the bartender kill some seriously large rats in the basement. Yeah, the bar he was in was a scummy thing, but that's the way he liked it. People left him alone in here.

Today, however, someone saw fit to disturb that peace.

“Alright, listen up,” a robust man with balding hair said, the door banging on the wall. “Everyone out! By order of the Brute Squad!”

There was much grumbling and grunting and squabbling around Kevin, which he resoundingly ignored. The bar was mostly empty by the time a Brute wrapped a hand around his arm and tried to force him out.

Kevin drew his sword and stood quickly, which, in his inebriated state, meant he fell two steps backward. Still, as the Brute approached, Kevin was able to effectively back him away with swipes of his steel. Him and the next two goons that came after him.

Meanwhile, outside the bar, Sam was bored. He'd join the Brute Squad because it was something that paid and something to do.

“All clear?” he heard the lead thug ask.

“All except some Asian kid. He's drunk off his ass, but good with a sword, and we can't get him out.”

Sam perked up. That had to be Kevin.

“I've got it,” he said to the two goons. “Let me handle him.” He didn't wait for confirmation, just strode straight through the wrecked entrance door, and right up to Kevin. “I've got this,” he said to the three men that were still fighting him. They fled without further prompting.

“Go 'way,” Kevin said, pushing at him.

“C'mon, Kevin,” Sam said. “Let me help you.”

“No. Wait for Abaddon. Go to beginning, wait for Abaddon,” Kevin slurred heavily. His eyes were glazed and unfocused and his head was wobbling dangerously on his shoulders.

Sam sighed. Kevin was starting to slide to the ground and he'd already dropped his sword. He reached for Kevin and still had to dodge a punch.

“You're such an ass,” Sam mumbled. A shaky hand came up and flopped through Sam's long hair. “Hi.” Sam said with a touch of amusement.

“Oh,” Kevin said. “It's you.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, shifting the weight in his arms. “You look like crap,” he observed. Kevin grunted. “And you smell.”

“Yeah,” Kevin agreed. “But I'm fine.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked.

On cue, Kevin fell unconscious.

Sam sighed. He carried the dead weight out of the bar and headed for the small cabin he'd called home before Abaddon recruited him. The Brute Squad attempted to stop him, but even with the metaphorical sack of flour he tossed over his shoulder, he managed to deck two of the louts who tried to get in his way.

The rest of them cleared a path after that.

The cabin wasn't far, and after Sam dumped Kevin on the palette that occasionally served as his bed, he went back out with a bucket to fetch some water from the well. That bucket of water splashed nicely across Kevin's face.

Kevin awoke sputtering and coughing, sitting straight up in alarm. Then his eyes fell on Sam and he relaxed. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” Sam said. “I've been looking for you everywhere, and I find you doing nothing more than drinking yourself into a coma in a seedy bar.”

“I was waiting for Abaddon...”

“Well you were going to be waiting for awhile.” Sam handed him the cup of water. “I have news for you that you might want to be sober for. Drink up.”

“Why, what's going on?” Kevin asked, sipping the water.

Sam explained everything. He explained that Abaddon was dead, and that Kevin must have passed him while he was dumping her body. He explained that it was Crowley's wedding day, and that he'd formed the Brute Squad to make it look like Guilder was hiding in the forest.

Then he'd told Kevin the most important bit. One of the men who had come out and examined where Abaddon had been killed, one of Crowley's advisers, was a six fingered man. Even from his hiding spot, Sam could make it out.

At the news, Kevin jumped out of the bed and hit his head on a rafter, falling back in bed, unconscious.

“I swear to God,” Sam mumbled to himself. He fetched another bucket of water, and upended it over Kevin for a second time.

Kevin didn't sit up this time, but he did jerk hard in the bed. He lay still for a few moments, staring at the ceiling. Sam wondered if he had brain damage.

“I must kill him,” he said eventually.

“Yes, I know,” Sam said, resisting an eye roll. “But if you're going to get into the castle, I think you'll need help, and I can think of no one better suited to the task than the Man in Black.”

Kevin eyed him wearily. “You're not going to help me.”

Sam's eyes scrunched in apology. “I'll help you find the Man in Black, but without another reason to go barging into a heavily guarded castle to assist in the murder of someone Crowley knows personally, I think I'll let you take it from there.”

“Fair enough,” Kevin replied. “Where do we find him?”

“He seemed pretty keen on getting to Prince Dean,” Sam said. “I think we should start by heading towards the castle.”

Kevin nodded. It was a start, anyway.

~

“Report,” Crowley ordered, sipping on another tumbler of whiskey. His wedding was today, and it was time to make sure everything was set.

Samuel stepped forward. “The forest is empty. I have 30 men at the gate, and the only key is around my neck.”

“Double your men,” Crowley ordered. “My love must be protected.”

“Love?” Dean said with a quirked eyebrow, stepping into the room. “Hardly.”

Crowley glanced at Samuel, before his eyes landed back on Dean. “Wedding jitters, my dear? All will be fine. Samuel is increasing security as we speak.” When Samuel didn't move, Crowley added pointedly. “Aren't. You.”

Samuel fled.

“My sweet,” Crowley said, rising. He set his tumbler on the table and rounding his massive desk to approach Dean. “Everything is prepared. Tonight, we'll marry. Tomorrow, my entire armada will escort us to our honeymoon.”

“Your entire armada,” Dean repeated flatly.

“Yes...?”

“Your entire armada minus your fastest ships,” Dean supplied.

Crowley really, really hated being a step behind. And here he was, exactly one step behind Dean. Metaphorically. Can't even enjoy the view. “Of course,” he agreed.

“Minus the ones you sent for Cas.”

“Except for the ones I sent for Castiel,” Crowley agreed again, nodding his head.

Dean shook his head at Crowley, but it wasn't even a disappointed or surprised gesture, not really. He looked resigned. Hell, Dean was smart, he'd probably never believed the lie in the first place.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbled. He reached for Crowley's glass on the table and tossed the contents back without a grimace. Damn. It would suck to lose a potential drinking partner. Dean slammed the glass back down. “Castiel loves me, and we'll find a way to each other. I almost feel sorry for you Crowley. All that's in your heart is darkness. I don't think you even know how to love, you fucking coward.”

“Don’t you dare talk like that—” Crowley began, now royally annoyed. Literally.

“Why shouldn’t I? You can't touch me. I have Cas, we have each other, and nothing you could ever do could take that away, you slimy little prick. He's a thousand times better than you, stronger, smarter—”

“Guards!” Crowley shouted. He grabbed Dean roughly by the arm, and before he could react, Crowley shoved him into several pairs of hands. “The Prince is hysterical with his fear of the threats for the wedding. Lock him in his room, keep him safe.”

“Don't forget what I will do, Crowley,” Dean growled.

Eh, well. If Dean jumped, he could make it look like Guilder had done that, too. Pushing Dean out a window worked just as well as cutting him. He just had to make sure Dean survived to the wedding.

Castiel would not be so lucky. He needed to die. Now.

~

The closer he got to the pit, the angrier Crowley got. Dean's words cut to the bone. Who was Dean to judge him anyway? A pig farmer, that's who.

He was not a coward. Would a coward start a war? No, they wouldn't. He would bet anything that dirty little pirate wannabe, who was _not_ smarter or stronger or _anything_ better than himself, would never have the balls to do _that_.

And he could love. He totally could. Maybe. He loved his blades well enough, and the whiskey in his liquor cabinet. And as for actual people, he loved... ah, himself.

Whatever, it didn't matter. The point was, what right did Dean and Castiel have to have everything he did not?

Metatron was with Castiel at the machine and raised a surprised eye when Crowley stormed in. He stepped to the side quickly when Crowley didn't make to move around him.

“Tell me,” Crowley said, stopping next to Castiel, venom in his voice, “what he sees in you. He has so much faith in you, in your ‘love.’ The smell of his horse farm is all over you, pirate. It's pathetic.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel croaked, “it has something to do with not being an assbutt.”

Crowley sneered. “You truly love each other, and so you might have been truly happy.” He took the lever of the machine in hand. It felt like power. He relished it. “Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the great tales say. So I think no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you will.”

The damn, brave bastard didn't even grace him with the look of terror he was expecting. But no matter, he ignored Metatron's protests and threw the lever to the maximum setting. The sounds the man let out were so full of agony and despair that they went beyond earthly sound. Even Metatron covered his ears as it drove around the room. The wail was piercing and railed at anyone with a soul.

But Crowley didn't have a soul. And so he rejoiced greatly in the horrendous sounds, smiling as the life was sucked from Castiel's body.

~

The most wretched sound Kevin had ever heard pierced through the forest with terrifying effect. Sam stopped and threw out his arm, halting Kevin in his path.

“What is that sound?” Sam asked.

“Sounds like ultimate suffering,” Kevin answered. “I recognize it. That is the sound my heart made when my mother was murdered before my eyes.”

“You think...?” Sam started to ask.

“The Man in Black?” Kevin finished the thought with an eye twitch. It was just a guess, but the Man in Black seemed like one who would be at the center of something that could make that sound. Hopefully it wasn't actually him, but something in Kevin's gut told him it was.

Sam nodded his agreement, and without sharing another word, they took off running for the scream.

They were close when the screaming had stopped, so they continued forward slowly.

They stopped when a cheery whistle, completely incongruent with the earlier wail, came from their left, and then a white skinned, fat little man rounded a tree and came into view pushing a wheelbarrow.

“Hello,” Sam said, not even bothering to hide the fact that he sounded just like a cat who had caught a canary.

“Oh,” the white man said, halting. “Hello.”

“We're looking for a man. Who wears a lot of black. Where can we find him?” Kevin asked. The Albino licked his lips and then pressed them shut.

“Memory problems?” Sam asked. “I can jog that.” He knocked a fist on the man's head and he crumpled like paper to the ground. “Uh...” Sam mumbled. “I didn't mean to hit him _that_ hard.”

Kevin looked at Sam with disappointment. He paced a few times, looked over the wheelbarrow, checked the Albino, but found no clues. Finally, he took out his sword and knelt with it.

“Kevin?” Sam asked.

Kevin shook his head and held up a finger, telling Sam to wait. Then he spoke, his face close to his steel. “Mother. It's your son. We are so close to avenging you, but I need your help.” He rose and stuck the blade out straight from his chest. “Guide me, mother.”

He closed his eyes and took careful steps forward. Then a few careless ones. He stumbled on a rock, straightened, and took a few more steps forward, where his sword dove into a tree.

Nothing else happened.

Sam tried not to laugh. Kevin was having a real crisis here, even if he had looked like a dimwit.

Kevin pulled out the sword and sighed. Spinning on spot, he laid back on the tree and thunked his head into the bark. A click rang out and a panel of wood popped open from the trunk, revealing a small entry point and a staircase that went down.

“Huzzah!” Kevin cried punching the air. “Thanks, mom,” he added, kissing his blade.

  
“You are one lucky little bastard,” Sam said, trying not to sound as awed and impressed as he felt. Kevin shrugged and ducked to begin making his way down the stairs. “I'll get the albino,” Sam called after him. “He could be useful.”

Carrying an albino down a narrow staircase wasn't as easy as it sounds, but Sam made it down only a few moments after Kevin.

Sam didn't let his eyes linger too long on the various pieces of equipment in the pit. They were clearly designed for pain and torture and made him a little uncomfortable. Other than the equipment, the pit was thankfully empty, except for the person Kevin was trying desperately to free.

The Man in Black was bound in leather cuffs to a table at the side of the room. The strange suction cups attached to his chest were attached by a tubular cord to an intimidating machine next to the table. Sam was trying hard and failing miserably to not think about what the machine did when Kevin called out to him.

“Sam, help, I think he's dead.”

“Crap,” Sam said, coming over to assist. He released the last cuff and they pulled the man up. “Hey, can you hear me? Uhhh... Man? In Black?” He didn't move.

Kevin rolled his eyes and pressed two fingers to the man's neck. “No pulse.”

Sam's lifelong dreams weren't riding on this man's help, and even his shoulders sank.

“We could take him to Dorothy,” Sam supplied after a moment, voice hopeful.

“Magic? You think that could work?”

“Only one way to find out.”

They left the albino on the ground and got the Man in Black up the stairs, placing him in the wheelbarrow the albino had conveniently left for them. Sam wheeled it while Kevin walked next to him, retracing the path from which they'd just come.

Dorothy was a witch who lived in a small hut with her wife Charlie. They'd been around for a loooong time, but the rumor was that long before Dorothy worked for Crowley, she had traveled a lot and picked up some rather unusual skills and abilities. She'd served as Crowley's miracle worker before he fired her.

“What?” came from the other side of the quaint door when Sam knocked on it. A slot slid open and a pair of eyes looked out at them.

“Dorothy?” Sam asked. “The one who served Crowley?”

The slot slammed shut. “Leave, or I'll call the Brute Squad!”

“I'm on the Brute Squad!” Sam called to the wood. He sighed.

There was a scuffle inside, and then a tiny redhead opened the door. “Sorry, we're still working on our manners in here,” she explained, shooting Dorothy a stern look. Then she looked up and down Sam's giant stature. “Dude. You _are_ the Brute Squad. What could you possibly need from us?”

Sam shucked a thumb over his shoulder at the Man in Black, and Charlie hummed.

“He's dead,” Kevin explained.

“I got that.”

“Oh,” Dorothy said, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward. “Well that's different. Bring him inside.”

She cleared off the table in the middle of the hut and Sam laid the Man in Black across it. Dorothy rubbed her hands together before examining the man. She poked him, prodded him, lifted his arm and watched it fall. She moved a hand down his chest and back up. Finally, she nodded.

“I've seen worse.”

“He's dead,” Sam said blandly.

“Only mostly dead,” Dorothy explained. “I can help. What kind of money ya got?”

Charlie kicked her in the shin but said nothing.

“I, uh,” Kevin muttered. He dug in his pockets while Sam did the same. Together, they were able to scramble up a pile of change. “This?” Kevin asked more than declared, handing it out for her.

“Really?” Dorothy said, raising an eyebrow.

“It's fine,” Charlie supplied, reaching for the money.

“I only work for that little when the cause is worthy,” Dorothy explained. She eyed Sam and Kevin carefully, and then lingered a bit longer on Castiel. “Something tells me you aren't worthy.”

“But it is a worthy cause!” Kevin shouted, anxious. “His, his wife is sick and they have five kids, and, and, it's all really, really sad...” Kevin's dreams were slipping away. He panicked. So shoot him.

Dorothy looked less than impressed. “No.”

“Alright,” Kevin said, squaring his shoulders. “The truth is that I need him to help me avenge my mother's death.”

Dorothy actually laughed that time. “Your first story was better, kid,” she said. “What, he owe you money? You know, I'll ask him. Charlie, hand me my bellows.”

“You can't ask him,” Sam supplied from the corner of the room where he was lounging. “He's dead.” What part of that were these people not getting?

“Mostly dead,” Dorothy corrected. “And there is a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead means still slightly alive.” She took the bellows from Charlie. “Open his mouth.”

After Charlie had pulled his chin down, Dorothy carefully inserted the tip of the device that is typically used to start a fire in between the man's lips, making sure they sealed around it. She pulled the paddles wide and closed them again, repeating this several times as the man's chest expanded with air.

“Now, there's only one thing you can do with a man that's all dead,” Dorothy explained as she pumped.

“What's that?” Kevin asked.

“Search his pockets for change,” Dorothy said, pulling out the device and setting it to the side. “Now, someone who is still partly alive...” She leaned close to the man's ear. “Hey, buddy!” she shouted suddenly, Kevin flinching. “What's so important? What do you have here that's worth living for?”

Dorothy put a flat hand to his engorged stomach and pressed. Miraculously, from out of the man's lips came sound.

“Trrrruuueee loooovvve.”

“Ha!” Kevin exclaimed. “There you go! True love! No greater cause than that!”

Dorothy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “He clearly said 'to blave' which everyone knows means 'to gamble.'”

A loud smack rang out through the room as Charlie hit Dorothy in the shoulder hard. “Liar!” Though Dorothy called out in pain, Charlie hit her again. “Liar, liar, liar!”

“Get away from me, you witch!”

“I'm not a witch, I'm your wife!” Charlie said, smacking her again. “But after what you just said, I'm not even sure I want to be that anymore.”

“Oh c'mon, Charlie,” Dorothy begged, ducking another swipe.

“True love! He said true love, clear as day,” Charlie said, continuing to lovingly—Kevin hoped—hit her partner. “You're just scared.”

“Don't-”

“Ever since Crowley, her confidence has been crap,” Charlie explained.

“You promised me you'd never say his name again!” Dorothy cried.

“CROWLEY!”

“Noooo!” Dorothy wailed, trying to cover her ears.

“Crowley, Crowley, Crowley!” Charlie screamed, chasing Dorothy around the room. Kevin wisely pressed into the corner with Sam, and then watched with amusement.

“She would rather let true love slip away than,”—whack—“admit”—whack—“it.”

“This is Dean's true love,” Sam said, jumping in, connecting the dots. “Prince Dean. This man would stop the wedding today, I'm sure of it.”

Dorothy froze and Charlie got in one more smack. Dorothy shot her love (allegedly) a glare.

“Wait,” Dorothy began, looking at Sam. “You're saying, if I make him better, Crowley suffers?”

Sam nodded. Kevin shot him a grateful look.

“Well then,” Dorothy said, rubbing her hands together, “Let's fix him up.”

Dorothy picked up a heavy book, dropping it on the mostly dead man's stomach and spreading it out, using him as a table. Because why not, he's mostly dead anyway. She read quickly, nodded sharply, and then Sam and Kevin stepped back once again as Dorothy began whirling around the tiny abode, grabbing pans and herbs and all sorts of odds and ends around the room. Within 10 minutes, Charlie was helping Dorothy coat a large pill in melted chocolate.

“Is the pill ready?” Sam asked.

“Yep!” Dorothy said. It was amazing how rapidly her mood had improved at the prospect of taking Crowley down a peg. “Wait 15 minutes for maximum potency, and then he shouldn't swim for...”

“At least an hour,” Charlie supplied.

“An hour,” Dorothy repeated with a nod.

As Sam scooped the man off the table, Kevin took the pill from Dorothy. “Thanks,” he added.

“No problem,” Charlie said, guiding them to the door.

“Bye now,” Dorothy called to their retreating forms. “Have fun storming the castle!”

“You think it will work?” Charlie asked, her smile strained with worry as she waved at them.

“It would take a miracle.”

~

The walk to the castle was short, ten minutes at most, but the quick surveillance of the gate revealed a dire situation. There were easily 60 guards present, and the wedding was to start in half an hour. They had no choice, they had to give the Man in Black the pill now. Sam heaved him off his shoulder and propped him against the outermost wall of the castle ground. He opened the mouth and Kevin took the pill out of his pocket, biting off the end of it to help get the contents pumping through the Man in Black a little quicker. He tasted a tang of herbs and oils as the tip slid past his throat. Oops. At least it probably couldn't do much to someone who was already alive-alive. He shoved the rest of it in the man's mouth, working his throat to get him to swallow it.

“How long do you think it will take?” Kevin asked.

“I have no-”

“I'll beat you both apart! I'll take you both together!” the man said, his eyes popping open and yelling at them both. After a pause, he added calmly, “Why won't my arms move?”

“You've been mostly dead all day,” Sam explained, like his words made sense.

“Who are you, where are we, are we enemies,” the man rambled off, adding to the end in a much more punctuated tone, “and where. Is. Dean.”

“I'm Sam,” Sam explained calmly. “That's Kevin. We're not enemies, not any more. Kevin was hoping you'd help him get in the castle so he can avenge his mother. And since Dean is about to marry Crowley, we figured you'd want to get in there too.”

The man scrunched up his face for a moment, trying valiantly to move something other than his facial muscles. All that came out was a groan. “How long am I going to be like this?”

“No idea,” Kevin replied. “You should be fully fine after an hour.”

“When's the wedding?”

“Thirty minutes.”

The man cursed. “Fantastic. What do we have to work with? What are our assets?”

“Well, there's the three of us—” Kevin started.

“Two,” Sam cut him off. Two pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at him. Sam ducked his head but there was no hesitation in his voice. “I told you. I have no reason to go in there—” he jerked a thumb towards the castle, “and risk my life. This is insane. You know you could just wait until after the wedding—”

He heard “no” in stereo.

“You know what we were hired for,” Kevin reminded him. He glanced at the Man in Black before continuing. “Before we knew... everything. We were hired to help kidnap Dean. He was to be killed at the border of Guilder to start a war. He's not going to survive tonight.”

The Man in Black made a pained sound, evidently trying to move again.

Sam sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples. “I know, I get it. But I told you I'd get you this far Kevin, and I have.”

“You selfish—”

“Fine! Maybe I am. I have one goal in my life and that is to find my family. I'm not dying before that happens, so unless you think this is some crazy fairy tale and my brother is magically Dean, or—”

“Sam,” the Man in Black interrupted calmly. His focus was on Sam's chest. “Is that a scar I see peeking out of your collar, or a birthmark?”

Sam stared at the man like he'd lost his mind. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because if it's a birthmark and it's shaped like a sun, then this is indeed a crazy fairy tale and maybe you should get on board with the story.”

“What?”

The man turned his eyes upward. Kevin decided to help him out and grabbed his face, forcing it upwards so he could meet Sam's eyes. “Dean has that exact same scar in the exact same place, and he also lost his brother. They thought you'd died, but you'd be the right age,” Castiel explained.

Sam blinked several times. “Dean's my brother?”

“What do you remember before you were taken? A farm, maybe? The smell of apple pie with a touch of fig? A woman's scent laced with rosemary?” the man asked. When Sam's mouth worked for several moments but no sound came out, he added, “Your mother, Dean's mother, and my savior, uses a rosemary perfume.”

“Oh my god.”

“Just a pirate,” Castiel quipped. “Though at this point, I think you should call me Castiel. I do hope to be your brother-in-law one day.” His eyes dropped. “Hopefully one day soon.”

Kevin turned Castiel's head to look at him. “As touching as this is, they're letting people into the chapel now. Are you in, Sam?” He turned Castiel's head back to facing Sam.

“Uh,” Sam said intelligently. His mind was spinning, reliving every old memory he could think of. He knew now, knew it deeper in his bones than he could explain, that Castiel was right. Dean was his brother. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. If I'm not dying before I find my family, then they aren't allowed to die either.”

“That's the spirit,” Kevin said with a grin.

“Assets?” Castiel repeated.

“Your brains, Sam's strength, my steel.” Kevin supplied, turning Castiel's head to face himself once more.

Castiel blinked twice. “That's it? Impossible. Maybe if I had a wheelbarrow-”

“Where'd we put that wheelbarrow we stole from the albino?” Kevin asked Sam.

Sam sighed. “It's back at Dorothy's,” he said. “I'll run. Give me six minutes.”

“A cloak would also help!” Castiel shouted at his retreating back. Sam threw a thumbs up over his shoulder, letting them know he'd been heard.

Kevin waited with Castiel, watching everyone entering the chapel in their finest clothes. He was getting twitchy. Which was making Castiel twitchy. At least, he would twitch, if he could move more than his facial muscles.

He was typically a quick healer, but Castiel was still quite amazed when he managed to get his head to flop to the side to look up at Kevin.

“Hey,” Kevin said, sounding pleased. “You moved your head! Doesn't that make you happy?”

“Getting Dean back would make me happy,” Castiel told him.

“I know,” Kevin said sympathetically, patting him on the shoulder before returning his gaze to the chapel.

While Kevin watched, Castiel's brain cranked away, planning their attack. The gate would be their best bet, with so much focus on the chapel. Once inside, they could double back and head straight for the nuptials. God help him if they were too late...

And if they were, it wouldn't be because Sam was slow. He was back inside of five minutes, dragging a wheelbarrow behind himself. He was running so fast that the tires were dragging huge tracks in the dirt.

“You're welcome,” he said, stopping in front of them and panting. “And the cloak.” He whirled it out of the wheelbarrow with a flourish.

“Perfect,” Castiel said flatly. “Now, put me on Kevin's back and make sure I have a sword handy.”

“You can barely move your head,” Sam pointed out.

“Well, that's hardly common knowledge, is it?” Castiel replied. “Now, where's that cloak? And please tell me the previous owner of this cloak was a smoker.”


	5. The Revenge

“Stand your ground!”

The command came out loud and clear from the man in charge of the gates. Everyone around him was cowering, shaking and twitching their legs backwards, itching to flee.

Not that anyone could blame them. Lumbering up to the gate was a gigantic man, over seven feet tall. He wore a thick cloak and was shrouded, only making him more terrifying.

“My men are here! I am here! And soon, you will … NOT BE HERE!”

Of course what the scared soldiers could not see behind the ginormous form that was Sam in a cloak was Kevin pushing him on a wheelbarrow with Castiel tossed across his back.

“Now?” Kevin asked Castiel.

“Now.”

Kevin reached into his pocket and pulled out the matches that were indeed in the cloak's pocket. He scratched it across the box and within moments, the entire cloak was ablaze.

The men screamed.

~

Dean could not believe he had made it this far. He was dressed in … well not _his_ finest, but Crowley's supplied finest, and standing at the altar with a man he fully did not intend to marry. He just needed an opening.

It was stuffy and he felt suffocated, and there were far too many eyes on him in here.

At least the clergyman was entertaining. He was short, wrinkly, and had a speech impediment he didn't seem to realize he had.

“Mawwage. Mawwage is what bwings us togevah today. Mawwage, that bwessed awwangement, that dweam wifin a dweam-”

The clergyman was cut off by shouting outside, and clear as day, ringing through the rafters of the chapel was a voice screaming, “Stand your ground!”

Dean's heart filled with hope. That had to be Castiel. Now if only he could find a way out of here...

“Hurry,” Crowley hissed.

~

“The Dread Pirate Roberts takes no survivors!” Sam shouted. “All your worst nightmares are about to come true!” Sam cried.

“Does he hear himself?” Kevin whispered to Castiel.

“Shhh,” Castiel replied. “It's working.”

Sure enough, the men on the edges of the formation were leaving. Someone was trying to close the outer portcullis, but that was hardly an issue for them.

“Sam, get the portcullis,” Castiel called to him.

They were right under it. Sam threw out an arm and caught the bottom of the steel mesh contraption and threw it back up. A loud grinding sound came from within the mechanics. It wouldn't be going back down any time soon.

More men fled at that, screaming and crying as they went.

~

Dean could hear the screaming and crying. Hell, everyone in the room could hear the screaming and crying. Crowley's face was working through an impressive display of emotions.

“Wove, twue wove, wiw fowwow you fowevah-”

Dean was smirking now, enjoying the color Crowley's face was turning.

“Skip to the end!” Crowley ordered.

~

“The Dread Pirate Roberts is here for your souls!” Sam cried. It was hysterically bad, the accent he tossed with it. Kevin was starting to laugh.

“I SAID STAND YOUR GROUND!”

~

Crowley now looked like he was going to explode.

“There's my Cas,” Dean said with such pride, it added another degree of red to Crowley's cheeks.

“Can't be,” Crowley mumbled. “I killed him myself.”

“I don't know, dude, you look pretty scared.”

Crowley bristled, squaring his shoulders and sticking out his jaw. “Say man and husband!” he barked at the poor elderly clergyman.

~

The fear of the Dread Pirate Roberts was an incredible thing. The only obstacles between Castiel, Sam, Kevin, and the castle, was a locked gate, and a shaking bald man.

“Give us the key,” Castiel ordered the cowering man.

“No,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Okay,” Castiel replied, utterly done with all of this. “Sam, rip his arms off.”

Yeah, a giant reaching for your arms, his body surrounded by flames?

“Oh, you mean this key!”

From a chain around his neck, the man produced a skeleton shaped key to the gate that blocked their direct entry to the castle.

“Go,” Castiel commanded, and he fled.

The courtyard empty, Sam tossed the cloak to the ground and jumped on it, smothering the flames. He let out a breath of relief. While effective and brief, he did just agree to set himself on fire. Dean better be worth it.

~

“Say man and husband, say man and husband!” Crowley shouted again at the clergyman. He was rather pathetic, Dean thought.

“Man and wi- husband,” the tired little clergyman parroted out. Like those words mattered. Perhaps Crowley was banking on his witnesses not having a clue what just happened and believing them to be married anyway?

“Take him back to his chambers,” Crowley ordered to no less than six guardsman. “And lock him in. I'll be there in a moment.”

Dean was yanked away. Not that he didn't try to deck a few guardsman and make a run for it. Eight was just too many for Dean to handle.

~

“I felt like such an idiot doing that,” Sam bemoaned, walking through the gate. “Don't make me do that again.”

“Hopefully you won't have to,” Castiel replied from Kevin's back. “To the left, the Chapel should be that way.”

Kevin followed his instructions, but they made it only a few hallways before they were stopped by a small group of men. At the center, Kevin noted a man with six fingers. His nostrils flared.

The six fingered man spoke first. “Kill the tall one and the dark one, but leave the third for questioning.”

Two guards rushed forward. Kevin passed Castiel to Sam, who caught the man loosely in his arms and nodded at Kevin in encouragement. Kevin drew his sword just as the men arrived. They were unskilled and weak and Kevin didn't even break a sweat taking them down. More came from a side corridor, rushing to the sound, but they were no issue either.

His eyes tore into the six fingered man as he said, “Hello, my name is Kevin Tran. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

The man, Metatron, Castiel had supplied, raised his sword as if preparing to defend himself, and then spun, and took off running down the hallway.

“Damn,” Kevin mumbled, and took off after him.

Sam tossed Castiel over his shoulder and followed at a more leisurely pace. He turned left at a branch and made it just a few steps further when they heard Kevin call out for him.

“Sam!” Kevin cried. There was a loud thud. “I need your help! Sam!”

“I've got Castiel!” Sam called.

“Put him down and run!”

“Go,” Castiel said softly. “I'll be fine. Just leave me a sword.”

Sam propped him up on a tall statue. “I'll be back,” he promised, pressing a sword into his hand, which, to Castiel's immense relief, he was able to hold. Sam turned and took off after Kevin.

Castiel wiggled his toes and thought that maybe he could make it to that door over there if he flopped hard enough and used the wall as support. There was a lot more scuffling down the hallway and he was in no state to take on whatever was coming on his own. Hopefully, whatever was on the other side of the door, it was at least a place to hide.

~

“Sam!” Kevin cried again. “Please!”

“Alright, alright, I'm here,” Sam said, coming up behind him. “Move,” he ordered, just before setting off at a break-neck pace and slamming his whole side into the door. It fell flat to the ground.

“Thank you,” Kevin said, stepping into the room. “Go get Castiel.”

“Right.”

Kevin had just enough time to turn away from watching Sam leave to register the room and sole occupant in it. The source of both his dreams and his nightmares stood before him. And as Kevin watched, an arm raised, flicked, and a knife flew across the room, hitting Kevin square in the gut.

“Oh,” Kevin said in surprise, moving a hand to the wound. He stumbled, his back eventually colliding with a wall. His stomach hurt like hell, pain radiating everywhere. That was it, he was going to die. “Forgive me mother. I tried.”

He'd almost forgotten Metatron was still in the room until he spoke. “Dear god,” he said. “You must be that little Asian brat I taught a lesson to all those years ago. Incredible. Have you been chasing me your whole life, only to fail now?” Metatron put his hands on his hips and laughed. “I think that's the worst thing I've ever heard. How marvelous.”

~

Dean was tossed unceremoniously into his bedroom, the door locking shut behind him. He pounded a fist against the solid wood in frustration. “Gaaah!” he cried.

Fine, that's just fine. They could lock him up again, he was ready to make good on this threat. He was leaving this room, one way or another. He stalked over to the window, pushed it open, and threw a leg out.

“There are few men with legs like yours, Dean,” a voice said from behind him. “It would be a pity to damage them.”

“Cas?” Dean said, turning to the voice. Castiel lay, like he'd been there this whole time, propped up on the bed. “Castiel!” Dean scrambled out of the window frame, strode across the room, and jumped on top of his lover. Straddling him, Dean kissed him like he was never going to get to do it again. With the way their relationship had been going, that was entirely too possible.

“Gently,” Castiel whimpered beneath him.

“Gently?” Dean asked, mocking. Right, like his badass pirate needed him to be gentle with kisses.

He pressed his lips to Castiel over and over, rocking downwards, pulling him close, until Castiel squeaked much more loudly and much more forcefully, “Gently!”

Dean let go immediately and Castiel's head smacked into the headboard.

“Um. Sorry.”

~

It's not that Kevin wasn't prepared to die. He totally was. And when that time came, he planned to die with dignity and honor.

But as the source of years of frustration and anguish stood gloating above him, Kevin simply decided that today was not that day. At least, not until he finished what he had come here to do. And so, with shaky legs and a great deal of pain, he made to stand.

Something pulsed through him, a vague feeling, but enough. The pain in his stomach lessened just enough that he was able to rise to his feet.

“Good god, you're not still trying to win, are you?” Metatron scuffed. “You've got an overdeveloped sense of vengeance, kid. It's going to get you into trouble someday.”

Metatron raised his sword and swiped at Kevin, who dodged the blows.

“Hello. My name is Kevin Tran. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.” Kevin said. He dodged another half-hearted swipe and his legs nearly gave out. They probably should have, but he was fueled by something beyond the physical now. He caught himself on a table. “Hello. My name is Kevin Tran. You killed my mother. Prepare to die. HELLO, My name is Kevin Tran. You killed my mother. Prepare to die!”

“Stop _saying_ that!”

Somehow, the strength was finding its way through Kevin's veins and he stood up straight, slashing at Metatron, disarming him quickly and stabbing him in the shoulder. “HELLO. MY NAME IS KEVIN TRAN. YOU KILLED MY MOTHER. PREPARE TO DIE.”

“No!” Metatron wailed.

Fueled by rage and anguish and years of dreaming of this moment, Kevin slashed the tip his sword across Metatron's cheek. It would leave a scar to match his own. “Offer me money!” Kevin demanded.

“Fine!” Metatron answered.

Kevin slashed again, marking the other cheek to match his mate. “Power, too! Promise me that!”

“Yes, yes, I can give you all of that!” Metatron said, falling to his knees on the stone floor.

“Offer me everything I ask for!” Kevin said, standing over the helpless weasel.

Metatron croaked, his hands in the air, begging defense. “Anything and everything you want.”

Kevin sneered. Metatron could never give him what he wanted.

“I want my mother back, you son of a bitch.”

Without a trace of hesitation or remorse, Kevin watched the fear change to certain knowledge of his impending death a fraction of a second before Kevin stabbed him through the heart. Kevin kicked his body off his sword, watching him collapse to the floor, finally dead. Finally giving Kevin the sense of completion he'd been seeking since he was a boy.

His own heart hammered in his chest as he turned and strode out of the room to find Sam and Cas, and hopefully Dean.

~

“Oh god, Cas, you couldn't have come before that dickbag had the clergyman declare Crowley and I man and husband?”

Castiel blinked up at Dean slowly. “I'm so sorry if my being mostly dead all day has been an inconvenience for you, Dean,” he said. “But just to be clear—you're married?”

“What? No, Crowley skipped ahead when he heard the war path you were forging,” Dean supplied. “Skipped right over the vows and the rings, the cowardly little shit,” He palmed the back of his neck. “The country bought it though.”

“Who cares about them,” Castiel grumbled.

“Heh,” Dean began, inclined to agree. Then he remembered the first thing Castiel had said. “Wait, what do you mean by mostly dead?”

He would have to wait for the explanation though, for at that moment, the door to his room banged open loudly and Crowley slammed it behind himself. He made it halfway into the room before looking up and halting.

Dean was on the bed next to Castiel now, Castiel still relaxing as leisurely as could be on the bed.

“Hello, Darlings,” Crowley crooned. He pulled his sword out and raised it high. “To the death, then.” He nodded his head to the side, realizing he'd already killed Castiel once. “Again.”

“No!” Castiel shouted. “To the pain.”

“I... what?” Crowley asked.

“I'll explain, and I'll use small words so your small mind can comprehend.”

“Did you just insult me?” Crowley asked. It must happen rarely, he sounded truly astonished.

“To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists, next your nose,” Castiel threatened, his voice low and gruff, like molten lava over rock.

Crowley pick up the thread. “And then my tongue, yaddee yadda. I killed you too quickly the last time, a mistake I won't repeat tonight.” He stepped forward and halted again when Castiel continued.

“I wasn't finished,” Castiel growled. “The next thing you lose will be your left eye, followed by your right.”

“Yes, yes, I get it, and then my ears. I understand, let's get on with it.”

“Wrong!” Castiel shouted. “Your ears you keep, and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out 'Dear God, what is that thing?' will echo in your perfect ears. That is what 'to the pain' means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.”

Crowley hesitated. His sword dipped just slightly, and Castiel knew he had gotten to him. “You're bluffing,” Crowley said.

“Am I?” Castiel responded. “It's possible, pig. I might be bluffing. It's conceivable, you miserable vomitous mass, that I'm only lying here because I lack the strength to stand.” He shrugged. “Then again, perhaps I have the strength after all.”

Castiel stood up from the bed slowly but without waver, and Dean felt like he was watching a master at work. He didn't even think to interrupt as Castiel picked up his sword from the bedside table and leveled it squarely at Crowley's chest. “Drop. Your. Sword.”

Kneeling on the bed, Dean resisted jumping up and down with glee when Crowley let his steal hit the floor with a clank.

“Take a seat,” Castiel ordered. “Dean, I assume you have something to secure him with?”

Dean was all too eager to get out his assortment of various clothing items that had been gifted to him and use them to secure Crowley to the chair, Castiel standing watch, his sword at the ready.

Once he was secure, mumbling about wasted silk, Castiel collapsed to the bed. “Thank god,” Castiel mumbled.

“You were bluffing!” Crowley exclaimed. “I knew it!”

“Yes, well, good for you,” Dean sneered. “You're still tied to a chair.” He looked to Cas, who was panting. “Dumbass,” Dean muttered fondly, coming to him to help him get into a more comfortable position. “I could have taken him.”

“I know,” Castiel insisted. “But this way, no blood was shed.” When Dean returned his statement with a blank face, he added, “I've done enough bad things in my life, Dean. I'm ready to do some good. With you.”

Dean melted at that, his eyes going soft. “Me too,” he said, giving Castiel's hand a squeeze. “Though I think killing him might still be a good thing.”

Castiel laughed and it was the best sound Dean had ever heard.

“Let's get out of here,” Dean suggested. “I'll help you down the stairs.”

Castiel agreed, and together they hobbled down the hallway.

When they got to the courtyard, Sam and Kevin were waiting for them with four horses.

“We found them unattended in the stables,” Sam offered up. “Figured we could use them to get the hell out of here.”

“Hey, wait,” Dean said, stopping dead in his tracks. “Weren't you hired to kill me?”

Castiel squeezed his hand. “They were, but things are different now.”

“Really?” Dean asked, crossing his arms. “Like how?”

“Well for one, Sam is your brother.”

Dean's jaw dropped so fast it hurt his teeth. “What?”

Sam stepped forward. “I was taken away from my family when I was really young, but Castiel swears we're family,” Sam explained. “We can talk later, but for now, this should do.” He pulled his collar to the side, revealing the exact same sunburst shaped birthmark that graced Dean's right pectoral.

“Holy shit,” Dean said with awe.

“Yes, but as he said, we should get out of here first,” Castiel said, nudging Dean with elbow.

The unlikely team mounted their horses and rode away, leaving Crowley in the dust. They set off for the sinking sun, Dean and Cas hand in hand, ready to start their life together.

The... Beginning.

True love stories never end.

####  **Epilogue**

_To my astonishment, Goldman wrote an epilogue, and it was not at all the happily ever after ending you would expect. It was cynical and just all around awful. This is not that epilogue._

 

Dean sat back and swigged a beer as he watched Castiel dance with a little girl from the neighborhood. They'd just saved her dad from robbers in the forest and everyone was celebrating.

That's what they did now, he and Cas, with the help of Kevin and Sam. They were hired swords, but they only sold their steel to those that were worthy, to the causes that were just and true. They worked with Dorothy and Charlie, sending them business and vice versa. Dean knew Castiel saw their work as redemption, and so did Kevin and Sam. Dean had never killed anyone and thus had much less to atone for, but there was something rewarding in helping people.

It also kept them close to home, so they could visit the farm whenever the mood struck.

Once they'd explained to Mary and John that Castiel and Sam were both alive, and Dean was happy and free to live the life he wanted, with the man he wanted, the party that raged in the quaint rural farm would have put the city to shame.

They were all family now. Dean and Cas were married, Sam was making up for lost time with his family whenever and however he could, and though Kevin hesitated at first, Mary Winchester took him under her wing and declared him her own.

Crowley, Dean knew, had gotten the tar beat out of him on his mother's order once everything came to light. It would have been impossible to hide all that had happened, but Castiel's letter with a few dropped hints certainly revealed the rest. He was still prince, of course, but there was no war with Guilder, and his arranged marriage was to a woman who was boring and plain. She deserved better.

The girl giggled as Castiel twirled her around, laughing. Sam shot him a glance from the other side of the room, raising his beer in a salute to another job well done. Kevin nodded at him from his usual place behind the mandolin. Something about sword fighting had translated to instrument play quite naturally for him.

Sure, there were bumps, and there was a patch of time Dean never, ever wanted to think about again. But all in all, it was a pretty sweet life, with a pretty incredible man.

When the song ended and another began, Dean took his chance.

“'Scuse me, sweetheart,” Dean said gently to the little girl. “Would you mind if I danced with my husband?”

She giggled sweetly and nodded, scampering off to find someone else to dance with her.

“Really, Dean?” Castiel asked. “Stealing dances from kids now?”

“She looked suspicious, think she was going to take you away from me,” Dean teased, taking Castiel in his arms and bringing him close.

Castiel laughed. “Now that you mention it, she was quite a bit more charming than you.”

Dean punched him lightly in the arm. “Shut up and dance with me.”

Castiel's nose crinkled with his smile.

“As you wish.”

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely no ill will is meant to the copyright holders for the book and the movie The Princess Bride. Many thinks to it's creator, William Goldman, and the movie creators, for letting me play in their sandbox. I get no money from this, just the normal joys and pains that come with being a writer.
> 
> A billion thank yous to my betas [destielengineering](http://destielengineering.tumblr.com) and [appleblossomdean](http://appleblossomdean.tumblr.com). More than just edits, you provided insight and friendship and encouragement, and I couldn't be more grateful for the "internet friends" I have made.
> 
> A billion more thanks to my husband, who did a final edit three days before posting, and then stuck with me as I niggled at tricky little things that almost no one would ever care about anyway.
> 
> If you want to connect with me (outside of commenting below ;)) the best place to find me is tumblr at [caswouldratherbehere](http://caswouldratherbehere.tumblr.com). I would love to hear from you!
> 
> Thank you for reading. I sincerely hope I did this beloved tale justice.


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